Even in Death
by azure-tears
Summary: AU, character death One death forever changes them. How can they cope...and what led up to it in the first place?
1. Ghosts of the Past

Author's Note: Character death, AU, standard fare. Okay, maybe the first part isn't, but meh. Oh, and F/H in this chapter, more to come in the later ones. Not that _that _should surprise any of you.

And I used no proper names in this chapter. Let's see if you can figure out what's going on.

I own neither the show or the line below. By the way, don't report me for it because that's just _stupid._ I'll just repost the chapter anyway. To hell with you if you do.

"_People die, but real love is forever." Amy Lee, Evanescence. _

Even in Death

Prologue: Ghosts of the Past

Fingers scraped desperately against the glass, but their dullness powdered, yielding no release. Frustrated, he howled, whirling around, cape dragging across the filthy floor. Oh, he abhorred when his luxurious leather cape suffered such unwarranted scuffing. Nonetheless, he pounded frantically, unrelenting in his desire for escape. Surely his protests might be heard. Surely out there, someone cared enough to give him the key and unlock his madness.

Sodden blue hair, drenched in sweat, flopped dejectedly. Panting, he slid down the wall, folded his arms across his chest, and stared moodily ahead. It'd been six months since the incident that stole his creator away, but he still remembered. Not too soon afterwards, they'd flung him inside this room. How he loathed and appalled every single one of them, particularly the proprietor and caretaker. How he'd make them pay if he only had the chance.

Fire burned furiously in maddened azure eyes, hardly touched by sanity. They scanned the perimeter, perceived no weapons, and then renewed their search. Surely someone might have carelessly left him a fork, knife, or other implement to manipulate the lock. Surely someone, in their infinite stupidity, provided him the key to their destruction. These padded white walls and mockingly high window must provide an ample weapon if only he utilized his cunning properly.

Buried in the cushions deeply enough to pierce his smooth skin, he extracted a Swiss Army knife and grinned maliciously. Well, well, it looked like the party was about to start.

* * *

She'd stopped wearing her hair in that ridiculous ponytail years ago. Besides, he'd told her he preferred her hair either pinned back in a bun while she worked or loose to stroke. Whenever he touched her, delightful shivers coursed down her back. The first time they kissed, she nearly passed out in shock. For someone who had constantly irritated her endlessly, there'd been such undeniable chemistry. Days afterward, she'd fantasized, grinning to herself while scrubbing the loo or repairing an antique vase. 

Of course, no one else knew about them. This house had its fair share of secrets, not the slightest of which was the perpetually locked room in the North Tower. None other than a nameless, unidentifiable creature entered to dispense food or change toiletries. The creature was changed habitually, to ensure any distinguishing features were not recalled, and always, the helper was mute or forbidden to talk. Communication was a tool disallowed.

The loudspeaker crackled, but before she ran to its summons, a dark skinned girl sped ahead and cut her off. Ever since his death, she'd traded her customary rainbow colors for an all black ensemble that revealed nothing, considering a veil dangled in front of her eyes. The two hardest hit creatures both lived here, though the girl dwelled when her parents felt it necessary to stimulate emotional and spiritual growth. If they cared to take a deeper look at their daughter, they might have discovered her tremendous, unrelenting sorrow. She'd never gotten over his loss.

Balancing a laundry basket precariously, its girth too much already, she bypassed the red skinned, wounded, one eyed imaginary friend who hefted her load easily. She smiled gratefully, following him into the laundry room. Friends washed their loads; some stayed to watch the clothing tumble (she supposed there was nothing on TV). Gently pushing one aside, she opened the washer for him to toss it in. Such a mundane task, but she associated it with the past immediately. Sighing heavily, she willed the memories away and scurried to her next task. The past affected her, yes, but its power had only destroyed the life of one friend here. She would not let it claim any others.

* * *

Scattered leaves, remnants of fall's tumble, played lightly across his grave. Swallowing hard, a raven haired boy with steel grey eyes knelt down to place flowers atop. Behind him, his mother glanced away, unable to cope with the reality. She beckoned to her now only child and the two, after murmuring their respects, walked away. 

She held the door open, but he scoffed, waving her off. Once upon a time, she might have claimed to know her children. But she'd never predicted the mood swings, sometimes violent, accompanying his grief. True, the boys had never gotten along quite like siblings, but she'd never guessed he might have truly cared. For instance, it'd been his idea to visit today, much like it'd been his to deliver the eulogy. She recalled the now humanoid imaginary friend demanding to speak instead and a crimson haired young woman struggling to pin him down. The exposure of her son's secret life, his unknown friends, and anything else came undone a few weeks before the funeral.

Blinking furiously, she pulled the car over and wept unabashed. Mothers shouldn't have to bury their children. They shouldn't have to stand there and watch powerlessly as the body was lowered into the grave. They shouldn't feel like somehow, they could have done something to prevent this. Why must she be burdened so?

Cars sped by and she longed to be as carefree as the others. But, more than anything, she yearned to undo time.

* * *

Tears blurred her vision, but she continued working tirelessly. Meanwhile, the large, timid purple imaginary friend did whatever cooking he could without being spooked by the instruments. Another time, another place, she might have teased him. Now, bent over the onions, she merely ignored him. Long, braided locks dangled down either side of her rounded face and swayed back and forth in rhythm. If she put all her energy and effort into this, she'd forget it. She'd forget the way he made her feel by simply walking into the room. She'd forget the way he smiled and how softly he spoke. She'd forget the ache in her heart, primarily from love and then, from his death. 

The light in her life had dimmed and then faded away to nothingness. Today was the six month anniversary of his death, too. She wondered if they'd let him visit his grave. Unfortunately, given his current mental state, she doubted this. He wasn't capable of dining with the other friends or indeed interaction. A few weeks after the accident, he'd gone mad. It'd taken four of them to confine him to a straitjacket and a few more to drag him up the stairs. He'd fought valiantly the whole way, spitting and cursing. The only thing that had calmed him was a whisper, "He wouldn't have wanted you to be like this". That had stopped him cold, though later they thought they heard him sobbing brokenly.

Still, all things considered, it wasn't like they hadn't had their share of crying fits. It was just that his death had affected him so profoundly, unhinged him so deeply, they feared he'd never recover.

* * *

Clearing his throat, he anticipated issuing a series of commands for the house caretaker when another arrived instead. This took him aback, since he'd planned on teasing her unmercifully and perhaps even sneaking in a private moment. Still, here was _someone _to count on, someone who seemed to know what she was doing. He smiled gently, directed her towards the fourth floor bathrooms, and provided her with a plunger. Since their resident mischief maker had been contained, copycats arose. Not a week went by without an imaginary friend trying to top his new record. As soon as he stomped down one, another arose. It was growing to be quite a nuisance. 

Nothing had gone right since that car accident. He'd gladly give his stiffly starched collar to undo the past and restore everyone to their normal selves. Heck, he'd love to see the humanoid blue skinned imaginary friend start one of his trademark conflicts if it meant his creator was still alive. He rarely got attached to very many humans, considering his line of work and his professionalism, but he, his creator, and her granddaughter he'd been rather fond of. Sighing heavily, he neatened a stack of papers on his desk and glanced out the window. Three o'clock just didn't have the same meaning any more.

* * *

Stabbing the door with the knife only embedded it, lamentably. A shadow flitted across the small room and he spun around, fists held up defensively. Azure eyes contorted in rage- who dared disturb him? When he got his weapon out, they were going to get it. He didn't give a damn who it was. Unless they planned to spring him out, they were an enemy. And all enemies had to be dealt with the same way- death. 

Unless, of course, this intruder was already dead.

Slack jawed, instrument forgotten, he fell to his knees and stared blankly at the dim shadow, barely visible in the twilight. For the first time in a long time, he felt his creator's presence.

* * *

The lights flickered on and off erratically. In the kitchen, the microwave, in the middle of cooking a snack, suddenly exploded and shot a Pop-Tart into the wall. Thankfully, no one had been in the way of the offending pastry. Hot filling oozed down and, in the semi darkness, the large, purple furred, bull-like imaginary friend quivered fearfully. He immediately scanned the room to locate a friend, but the illumination failed completely and he howled pitifully.

* * *

The peculiar thing was outside, the sky was completely clear. No sign of clouds, either. No thunder or lightening affected the electricity and outwardly, there was no evidence this should have been happening at all. Huddled beneath his desk, the large, grey and white furred imaginary rabbit waited for this supernatural phenomenon to be over. He had no idea why it spooked him so badly, but this somehow smacked of spiritual beings and unnatural energy, normally a field he staunchly denied. 

He glanced up at the underside of his desk and shivered. This was far too small a place to situate himself and he was rather cramped. Still, until the things that went bump in the night vanished, he'd stay right where he was, thank you very much.

* * *


	2. Home Remedy

Chapter Two: Home Remedy

(Eleven months earlier)

Bloo twirled around daintily on an ice patch in front of Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends. None of the friends dared bring it up, but most personally felt the blue blob possessed many feminine tendencies. This fit, however, considering he was technically Mac's female side. And, at the moment, this other half crushed on his creator _badly_. Sure, he'd had little fixations, but never anything this major before. It confused him to no end in more ways than one.

First off, no imaginary friend and human couples existed or, if they did, they kept themselves hidden. If he paid more attention to his surroundings, he might have noticed the arguments between Frankie and Mr. Herriman were growing more staged as of late. He also might have seen other hints between the teenagers who still kept their imaginaries, but that hardly mattered. In his mind, he was the only loser pining after his creator and therefore, he shouldn't tell him. Besides, he was with Goo an awful lot. He hadn't actually witnessed them in anything other than a friendly relationship, but in the back of his head, something whispered- he's straight. And it tore him up inside.

For safety precautions, Goo didn't often enter Foster's. Old habits died hard and Frankie and Mr. Herriman privately worried, even after all these years, she still might get over stimulated and clog the house again. That and she was rather inquisitive, poking into their business a bit more than she ought to. They seemed rather certain she'd unearth something and once or twice, he'd followed her along on that hunch, but found nothing. No dead bodies in the yard, no skeletons in the closet, nothing (and he literally searched there; he dug up the whole yard).

He spun, prepared to execute a bizarre trick he probably wouldn't succeed at in a million years, and fell flat on his face. The ice around him crackled, threatening to dump him in ice cold water, but it didn't matter. His heart had already shattered into pieces. Goo and Mac were standing by Foster's gates and they were holding hands. His creator leaned in to do what Bloo assumed was peck on the cheek.

"NO!" he screamed. "No, no, no! This isn't supposed to happen! NO!"

Biting back sobs, he ran into the house and left the two completely bewildered.

* * *

Curled up in a very tight little ball, he rocked back and forth morosely. Wilt, Eduardo, and Coco had each tried their best to placate him, but the only result was a distinct moan punctuated by a dry sob. He lay, covers clutched about like a protection blanket, whimpering pitifully. For someone who had leapt with youthful abandon into the courtyard to wait for his creator, he certainly didn't act like it. In fact, the two creatures might have been diametrically opposed if their behavior were compared. Wilt shrugged hopelessly, glancing at Coco. She said nothing, shaking her head. Eduardo gulped, laying a comforting paw on the imaginary blue friend's shoulder, but he recoiled, twisting towards the pillow. Footsteps sounded outside the room and three jumped to attention. The fourth simply waited for the roof to cave in. His world already had.

"Hi, guys…" Mac murmured uncertainly, staring at Bloo. He pretended he had neither heard nor sensed his creator's presence. Instead, he contorted his head still closer to his knees, rather like an infant in a fetal position. At least, if this infant had stubs for arms and no other recognizable limbs. He hesitantly stepped a few paces forward then stopped, eyes glued to his bizarre actions. Swallowing hard, he shifted his perception to the others, who shrugged. None had a clue to his outburst, but he had the keen notion he'd pry no details with them lingering around. Bloo wasn't prone to revealing anything surrounded by company, particularly since his ego had already taken a hit. They might be his friends, but showing weakness to them was not only impractical to him, but a death sentence.

"(We can leave if you want us to)," Coco offered graciously, pecking Eduardo warningly on the shoulder. He yelped, staring at her. Smiling mischievously, she nudged Wilt with her beak; thankfully, the athletic imaginary was a great deal more intuitive than his purple furred companion and started towards the door. Eduardo blinked, watching wordlessly as his two friends sought to give creator and creation privacy. He followed only when it seemed like he might be left in the dust.

Mumbling 'thanks', Mac shut the door after Ed and sat on Bloo's bed. A pair of wary azure eyes, swimming in tears, poked out and then darted back under the covers. Sighing, he wrenched the sheets away only for him to pull surprisingly adroitly where he staunchly desired them, concealing himself. Mac rose and began to pace, wondering where to start when he hadn't the slightest idea what to say in the first place. Speaking had always been Bloo's maestro, not his.

Whenever he pivoted, back to him, he swore he dropped the covers enough to stare. Yet the instant he thought he'd catch him at it, he was back to eyeing the fabric. Minus a television or anything else to distract him, this was the longest moment in known history passing between the two without conversation or activity. Or, if it wasn't, it certainly felt that way. The tension in the room was escalating unbearably. He'd never been this uncomfortable in his life around his best friend (which was ironic, since Bloo _had_, though for a different reason all together). What did he want him to say? What did he expect?

"Bloo…" he started and then stopped. A good beginning, perhaps, but not for him. Whatever words he'd planned henceforth speedily departed. He wanted to speak frankly with him, but he didn't know what he'd seen, or, rather, what he thought he had. Even after all these years, he'd the tendency to jump to conclusions.

The silence transcended merely unbearable to suffocating. It altered into a palpable existence, its oppression as real as a heat wave's ability to transform adroit, capable people into lethargic dimwits gawking at the idiot box. Coming from every corner, it threatened to swallow any future statements within its surprisingly vast grip and dwindle them into more background fodder. The longer he waited, the more his throat closed up and the less words formed coherent, intelligent sentences.

"I saw you two," Bloo croaked suddenly, shattering the illusion. "How could you…why would you…?"

Bewildered, he waited, no longer pacing in place. He settled on the bed again and scrutinized him; the way his nubs cradled the green sheets, the way his body quivered furiously underneath, and the way his voice quaked, close to breaking. Gently, he laid a hand on the creature's shoulders, but, like he had with Eduardo, he whacked it off violently. Diminutive arms punched weakly at his creator as though he'd like to do real damage, but the emotional toll proved too high.

Barely audible and Mac had to lean over to hear, Bloo whimpered, "_How could you do this to me_?"

Thoroughly baffled, he fought the urge to rudely say "what?" and wrapped his arms around him. The imaginary blob pressed himself against his chest and wailed, forgetting the source of his misery was indeed trying to comfort him. He lost himself, too dejected to notice. In between sobs, he caught "_why_ and _how_" repeated endlessly. Then, just as the sobs subdued, he heard what he swore was "_I love you!"_ and Bloo wept again. Any further attempts to mollify the morose friend were met with hostility and Mac guiltily left him to his sorrows.

* * *

He left Foster's rather early (considering his trend to spend more and more time there instead of the apartment) and started, minus other options, home. The mental link he possessed with Bloo hadn't helped any in the dissertation and motive behind his unfettered fit. Head hung dispiritedly low, he swallowed hard, aware that on the other end, his imaginary friend's heart panged and ached like it was broken. No, not broken- obliterated and ripped from his still living chest. The notion gave him pause and he detoured into the park.

Wrapping his arms around his wiry frame, he locked the pieces into place and sighed. Why hadn't he figured this out sooner? More importantly, why hadn't he told him the truth? Why…

He clenched his fists on his lap and, therefore, hardly noticed when Goo sat beside him. Like always, she never asked if it was all right. She'd leave if it wasn't, but usually not without much coaxing. Mac had the feeling that as the years progressed, she'd drawn less interest from other kids, not more. She wasn't terribly hyper any more, but she was rather bouncy and flamboyant, something that grated on a lot of people's nerves very quickly. If Mac hadn't grown used to her, he might have been tempted to do as a few of the girls in their school did and whack her to shut her up.

"What'cha thinkin' 'bout?" she inquired, casually butchering the English language. He'd abandoned teaching her proper English a while ago. Most of it had penetrated anyway, but she didn't like to speak formally unless she was trying to annoy someone or be polite. Usually, it was the former to irk Mr. Herriman.

"Nothing," he lied, shifting away and glancing at the approaching twilight. Night crashed harshly upon the world in the winter, like a slap in the face. A stray, fat squirrel skittered into the snow, burrowed desperately, and, grasping a morsel of food, darted up an elm tree towards its nest. Only a few patches of snow remained after last week's snowstorm, an occasion which had found Bloo jumping on him under the pretense that it would start hailing soon. It hadn't, but he'd stayed nestled by his neck.

"Somethin's up," she replied, smiling quirkily. He neither confirmed nor denied it. He leapt up and, like he'd never stopped, started pacing again. In her fluffy pink winter jacket, she shrugged and stretched out, knee high leather boots scuffed and now occupying his former seat. A rainbow colored skirt fell to her ankles and dangled off the cement. She wore more colors together than the gay pride banners did. Her parents still encouraged creative growth…that and he was prepared to bet they never lost her in a crowd with her typical get-ups.

"Has Bloo…" he trailed off, deciding abruptly that the place he was best suited was for that which he'd just left. What good was sitting here and chewing the fat when his conscience would just devour him whole? He abruptly spurted off in that direction and, like a moth drawn to the flame, she pursued him.

* * *

He nearly careened into the front door and when Mr. Herriman opened it, he shoved him aside to spurt up the stairs. Over his shoulder, he called to Goo that she ought to go home until he sorted this out. Unfortunately, she discovered a new friend that caught her eye and she stalked him amusedly. Beside himself, Mr. Herriman squawked about no running the house, screaming at others when they were in the immediate vicinity, and coming in uninvited, which Goo most decidedly was. Frankie, in the middle of mopping the lobby, rolled her eyes. As usual, his lecture had fallen on deaf ears.

"Miss Frances," he snapped, hopping towards her. Bereft of the proper person to chastise, he fell upon his old tradition of badgering the help. Hmm…maybe _that _was why Goo considered him to be a badger. Odd, but entirely false.

"Did I _say _you could stop mopping?"

Grinning wickedly, she flicked the dirty mop water at his paws and he leapt backward, scrambling to get away from the filth.

"No, but you didn't say I couldn't do _that_, either," she replied, shaking the mop head liberally. Droplets of brownish dirt and grime danced around his back paws. She snickered, watching him dance agitatedly to avoid being sprayed. Her eyes sparked mirthfully and she brandished the mop like a weapon. It took all her self restraint not to throw back her head and howl amusedly.

Sputtering indignantly, he hopped towards his office only to be showered. She grinned devilishly, all the while shrugging innocently. Oh, this was her fault he just happened to be in the way of her spray? Why, really, of all the nerve.

"Miss Frances," he snapped, fur hiding a deep blush, "stop this atrocious behavior at once!"

"You're a grown woman, for heaven's sake, and what a poor example you set for all the other imaginary friends here by resorting to such juvenile tactics," she finished and he stared. Twirling the mop around, she strode purposefully and cockily in his direction. He retreated like she was brandishing a knife. Her grin spread further- one of her droplets had spotted his pearly white gloves.

Clearly at a loss, his lecture memorized or at least mimicked by his creator's granddaughter, he gaped as though he'd never properly seen her before. She raised the mop once more and, yelping fearfully, he hopped into his office and barricaded the door. This last act was too much. Holding her stomach, she burst into gales of laughter.

* * *

Bloo jumped slightly upon his creator's silent entrance. Despite the extreme gusto leading him to climb the stairs three at a time (and the same gusto that caused him to fall up the stairs which _can _be done), he'd decided the best thing was to catch Bloo unawares, because if he didn't, he was bound to throw him out. And so, five minutes later, the blue blob imaginary friend found himself snug in his arms. Astonished, he didn't fight him for a full five minutes, absorbing the pleasure of his soft warm sweater against his body, the way his chest rose and fell, and his warmth. If he shut his eyes now, he might die happily in this embrace.

"I should have realized it sooner," he whispered and Bloo smiled softly, the words flowing by mindlessly. His heartbeat was rather fast by his inner ear. In fact, it was racing. But why should it be doing that? Why had he come back, anyway?

Clearing his throat, he once again grew flustered. He glanced down at the creature in his arms and, at once, he leapt up and assaulted him with a strong smack that resonated throughout the empty room. He wrapped his arms around his head and kissed him as forcefully as he could muster. Mac fell over on the bed.

_If I can't have you first, then I'll steal you away from her. Mine, **my **Mac!_

* * *


	3. Descent

Author's Note/Disclaimer: Good morning, y'all. It's too early to determine my mood today, but if you guys give me good reviews, it'll probably work out well. Of course, you probably won't, but, eh. I'm not writing it for heaps of praise.

Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends does not belong to me.

And this will be the last flashback chapter, I promise.

Chapter Three: Descent

Stunned, Mac let Bloo kiss him until, furious, the small blue imaginary friend withdrew, eyes blazing. His whole frame quivered, exuding anger and displeasure. Stubs curled into the semblance of hands and, in a split second, Mac sincerely thought he'd hit him. Yet the moment came and passed and, exhaling sharply (he couldn't remember holding his breath), Mac watched him pivot, point at him soundlessly and accusingly, and then hop off his bed. He scurried across the floor, out the door, and slammed it. The ensuing bang shook Mac to his marrow, though he couldn't help but finger his lips and recall the aggression of his first kiss.

Sighing, befuddled at Bloo's newfound passion, he laid spread eagled on the bed and stared up at Eduardo's bunk. No ladder, no steps providing a clear way up or down; he wondered how he reached it in the first place. Idle curiosity, nothing more, a thought that killed the time otherwise occupied with the motive behind what had just transpired. He wished he could say definitively he either disliked or liked it, but nothing profound struck him, no great sway either way. Yes, his heart had pounded in his chest, his palms sweated, but…

Outside, Bloo cocked his head to see how his creator reacted. Of course, since he'd instantly expected him to fall head over heels, profess his love for him, and then deny Goo ever entered the equation, he was disappointed. However, there was still hope. Besides, who would choose that insane, hyper girl over him? In fact, it wasn't for him, he'd have never met her. He ought to be thanking him, not shoving him away in lieu of a wannabe that never stood a chance.

If he ever acknowledged his past words or remembered them, for that matter, he would have recalled, "I like this girl for you" to Mac upon the first meeting. Then again, he'd said that before falling for him and falling hard. He'd thought, perhaps erroneously, that she might turn out to be cool. (Though no one, naturally, was cooler than him). Or maybe because she betrayed him by stealing his Mac; how dare she put the moves on him without asking him first.

The more he looked at this, the more he placed the blame on her. Mac was naïve, foolish, and gullible. If only he'd listened to his younger and wiser imaginary half, he'd never have been beguiled by her charms. She seduced him to the dark side and now, it was his job to rescue him, like Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader. Or perhaps not- that'd make them related…not to mention Mac would be burned beyond recognition, breathing through a respirator, and kept alive by artificial means. The cape would look sexy, though. Hmm.

Wait, what was he thinking about? Oh, right, rescuing his damsel in distress. Rubbing his stubs together gleefully, he decided that since Mac was obviously too deeply immured in her clutches, he'd have to resort to other means. Other, less legal means.

* * *

The next few days, Goo kept shuddering, glancing over her shoulder agitatedly, but seeing nothing. A shadow passed by frequently, but before she identified it, its presence vanished, leaving her to wonder if she was either going crazy or if someone was stalking her. Random explosions happened whenever she tried alone time with Mac and even in the halls, she heard her name hissed. Rubbing her hands along her goosepimpled arms, she glanced towards another in the hopes they too heard it, but none came to her aid. She was, after all, the freaky hyper girl who always hung at Foster's, the lamest place ever invented in the minds of teenagers. What's worse was her only friend was Mac, the guy people decided, with only circumstantial evidential, had to be gay. And so, on a balmy winter day, she settled at a picnic table and, gathering today's long peacock skirt underneath her, sat down.

Donning plumes of feathers that stood up on her head like the aforementioned bird, she also wore faux leather purple knee high boots, black stockings, a 'tail' jutting from her back, and a purple kimono like shirt. Her hair, too, had undergone a transformation; now two long braids dangling down her shoulders. Two red downy objects bound them. Many people had already called her 'cuckoo', to which she cheerily replied, "No, a peacock. But good guess!"

Mac, glancing about agitatedly, placed his lunch atop the table. The same shadow she'd seen before darted behind a tree and, slamming her palms on the wood, she strode boldly towards it. Bewildered, he abandoned his brown paper bag to pursue her. Snow and dead leaves, exposed thanks to the rising temperature, crinkled beneath her boots and his sneakers. A small, blue blur raced through the trees (a forest bordered the high school), but never took her dexterity in her traditional attire into account. Splitting off, the two managed to corner the culprit, Goo leaping bountifully and snagging him.

"Bloo!" Mac cried, scowling at his madly struggling imaginary friend. Kneeling down, he snatched one of his blobby stubs to drag him out, but Bloo snarled like a rabid dog. Unfortunately, pinned by Goo, all he managed to do was growl and threat them. His little stubs flailed, pounding the ground furiously.

"_You're_ the one who's been followin' me!" Goo exclaimed and, lifting his gaze, Mac mouthed "following?", but she never let him ask. Smiling confidently, she released him in time for his creator to leap forward and lock him in an embrace. Stunned, he ceased quibbling to enjoy the feel of his chest, listen to his heart, and enjoy his heat. It almost sounded like he was purring.

"If you wanted my autograph, you should have just asked," she replied, smiling benignly. "Better get it now 'cuz I'll start charging soon."

"Stay away from Mac!" Bloo snarled, recovering. "He's _mine_! Back off!"

"Uh…what?" she murmured dumbly. "What are you talking about?"

"He's _my _creator, _my _lover, and if you touch him again, you'll wish you were never born. I'll make you sorry you ever met him…or me."

* * *

Goo, though a little unnerved, nonetheless continued to see Mac. And, whenever she did, Bloo inevitably popped to cause trouble or prance around his creator. The days soon evolved into weeks and the situation grew worse, not better. Though usually shy and timid, even Mac had reached the boiling point. Fists balled, he pivoted and pointed an accusing finger at him. Today, Bloo deigned to frighten Goo so badly, she nearly bike rode into a tree. At the last split second, Mac managed to avert her handlebars, resulting in them nicking the bark but nothing serious. Then, two hours later, he'd framed her for breaking a window in the girls' bathroom (he paid a few girls to testify against her) and the principal called her out of an exam to assign her a detention she wrongfully received. During lunch, he'd filled her sandwich with sand and emptied her drink. Thirty minutes ago, he'd sabotaged her homework and texts, so now she had to pay for the latter and painstakingly reconstruct the former, a toothpick house.

"This has to stop," Mac snarled, flinging aside his backpack onto his bed.

"I agree," Bloo replied nonchalantly. "She has to go."

"No, Bloo," he snapped. "One of us has to go, and it's not her."

"Huh?" he murmured, confused. Hopping onto the bed beside his creator, he sat in his lap, but he pushed him away. Hurt flashed in his azure eyes, yet he was unrelenting. No matter how many times he showed him affection, he shoved him to the side.

Taking a deep breath, he said, "I told you repeatedly we're not in a relationship, but you won't believe me. If you can't behave yourself and you're going to keep hurting her like this, then one of us _has _to go. And that someone will be me- until you can stop this petty jealousy, I'm not coming back to Foster's."

Bloo's mouth fell open and his mind furiously reworked what he'd said. No, he couldn't possibly mean it. No. He wouldn't abandon him. He couldn't. He'd never…not when he loved him…no…

Tears welled up in his eyes, but rather than sob brokenly like he desired, he snapped at him. He had to hide the agony his words created. A hole opened up in his heart and it ached. He couldn't…wouldn't…how could he even say such a thing? This was his Mac, the 'come back kid', the one he'd been with for years. The person who promised him he'd never think of it.

"Fine! Don't come back to Foster's, then!" he growled, losing complete control over his mouth. "Leave me here to wither and die while you make nice with your girlfriend!"

"She's not my…never mind. Goodbye, Bloo."

And that was the last time he saw him alive.

* * *

That night, he tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Mac's words reverberated through his mind and his body underwent a gruesome transformation. His last gift, a human form, and the one Bloo came to associate it with grief and anguish, for this was the form he felt his death in.

* * *

Standing at the top of the stairs (it'd taken him an hour to get this far in foreign legs), he shuddered, sensing bones shatter and blood rush into tender places it oughtn't to be. The equivalent of being crushed by two tons of steel metaphysically rushed him and his head caved in thanks to wheels squealing as they ran him over. Blood rushed into his mouth and, though he spat, it never came out. His vision faded, but the agony continued. Bones splintered, tore through the skin, and dug into his lungs. Breath, precious breath, denied him. His heart stopped…and, after he tumbled down the stairs and re-awoke hours later; he realized none of these had happened to him. They called it a car accident, hit and run.

* * *

_No. He's not. They're lying. Why would they say something like that? It's not funny. I didn't feel Mac die. Part of my soul isn't missing. They're **lying**. Mac's still alive!_

* * *

He hated them. Despised everyone, from Frankie for 'breaking the news' to that stupid rabbit, placing his paw on her shoulder like he had the right. This wasn't funny. Not at all. Mac wasn't dead. His collapse was completely unrelated. How could they fabricate such a horrendous story? That coffin was empty. He'd prove it. Mac was still alive…

* * *

Frankie shut the door, locked it, and leaned against the frame. Mr. Herriman hopped to her side and, glancing about first, wrapped his arms around her waist. Exhaling sharply, she shifted in his embrace to place her head on his shoulder. These past two weeks had been very trying on both, namely because Bloo's denial to accept his creator's death had wreaked havoc on every denizen. In his grief, he habitually started fights (twice Frankie had to stave him off), threatened people when they 'lied' to him, and tore up the house. His moods changed unpredictably, but anger raged prevalent. He accused Frankie and Mr. Herriman of killing Mac himself when they insisted the funeral _wasn't _a farce and that Mac _was _dead. He also took to haunting the lobby and front doors every three o'clock and woe be the family that arrived there instead. Oftentimes, he drove them away screaming.

"I don't know what we're going to do with him. He's disturbing the other friends," she sighed. What she hesitated to say, she truly believed must be the case, but it still bothered her to consider. Helplessly she glanced towards him, stroking his whiskers contemplatively. One of his paws dropped to caress her cheek and her heart stopped. Then, discovering his action, he recoiled lest he offend her. Their eyes met and her hand brushed his lightly but deliberately.

Continuing as though the little exchange never occurred, he commented, "And discouraging others from adopting. He has become quite a nuisance."

What they'd done in the past with other troublesome friends, short of assigning them to Faust's, was confine them. Yet whenever she considered that for Bloo, her conscience panged. Annoyance he'd been, but a friend nonetheless. She'd grown attached to him because of Mac and locking him up was like throwing away the last piece of Mac they had. The system established now, conversely, was…rather similar. Coco, Ed, and Wilt staunchly refused to have him in the same room (they were afraid of him hurting them in their sleep, though Frankie had a hard time dragging that confession out of Wilt). Two nights ago, they'd started locking him into a spare room to prevent late night wandering. No one trusted him anymore.

"Give him a couple more weeks to adjust to his death. Imaginary friends _have _been notorious for suffering bouts of insanity after their creator's death, particularly if they were extremely close. Maybe he'll get over it," she finished optimistically. Two weeks later, however, brought no changes, unless you counted the amount of families, friends, and animals he'd frightened away from Foster's. Faced with the insurmountable difficulties he presented, they finally forced him into isolation and, eventually, solitary confinement. Friends who lived in that wing moved away because of the screams at night.

* * *

Read and review, please. (If you can, that is. I know this site gets buggy sometimes). 


	4. Nobody

Chapter Four: Nobody

Fingers, the same that desperately scrapped the windows and door, groped blindly forward. Brilliant azure eyes, clouded by insanity, cleared and, grinning jubilantly, he cheered. He attempted to embrace the figure, but his arms passed through. Perplexed, he stared blankly and gnawed his lip. He gingerly reached out again, but to no avail.

"Mac?" he whispered, trembling. "Mac, is that you? Why can't I touch you?"

Sighing heavily, he placed his hands on his shoulders, but they sank through. Bloo clenched his eyes shut, willed away the hot tears burning the corners, and wished harder than he'd even done in his life for his creator to have a greater form. Releasing energy through the bond that still existed because part of his imagination lived on, Mac gained some solidity, enough for his hands to actually touch Bloo, though they were icy. Rivulets coursed down Bloo's cheeks and Mac thumbed them away.

"You came back…for me…" he whispered, choking back sobs. Passively, his creator watched, glancing around them at the padded walls, heavily locked door, and barred window. Frowning lightly, he sat Indian style on the floor and waited until his creation calmed himself. Bloo opened one eye and Mac patted the floor beside him. No sound came out.

"I came back _because _of you," he said, miserable. Bloo had never seen him so anguished in his life and tears welled up in his eyes. Flinging himself beside him, he glanced up and scrutinized his sorrowful expression. More tears streamed down his face and, with them, a desperate release of energy that enabled him to wrap his arms around him. The realization his creator was dead had just struck him and rather poignantly. Its acuity seared deeply and his chest heaved.

"You won't let me go, so I can't pass on."

Part of him pitied him, but the part driven mad by his absence whispered, "Now he can _never _leave me. He's mine forever." He grinned, darkly amused, but he merely shook his head and hung it. Translucent brown bangs hid his eyes and when he raised his head again, he saw that agony again. A voice whispered, "if you love him, you have to let him go", but he ignored it. Selfishly, regardless of its impact on him, he needed him beside him. Seeing him again brought him back to a lucid state and, at the same time, struck buried nerves and wounds never healed. Mac was dead. The truth he refused to accept was here and smacking him in the face. Mac was dead. He couldn't be. No.

"Bloo, you're hurting me. I can't go onto the afterlife, and I can't live again. I'm stuck in limbo because you won't accept my death. I don't want to see you in pain, but I…" he trailed off, glancing away and swallowing hard. What he really wanted to say he wasn't ready to hear and the more staunchly he denied the truth, the more energy he sapped out of him. It tethered him to this plane, but it wracked his spirit as well. No one else had such a claim, either.

Starting over, he said, "It's not just me you're hurting, either. I've been watching you for a while (I had no choice). You tried to stab Frankie with a fork and attack Mr. Herriman when they said I was dead. You threatened Terrence and Mom when they wouldn't let you 'see me' in the apartment. You won't recover…and you bring everyone else down with you."

Bloo turned away, refusing to listen to his past deeds. Clapping a hand over his ears, he glared sullenly at the wall. No matter how much Mac plied him, he pretended he wasn't there. Depressed, he used his lingering energy to run his fingers through his hair and then escape through the window. That night, the friends who timidly quested up to that particular corridor heard the broken sobbing once more.

* * *

Frankie knew she oughtn't to be there in the first place. She knew she ought to return to the safety of her room, or, in the very least, Mr. Herriman's. Yet she worried about him and after the oddness of the night, she felt obligated to check up on him. Creeping along and creating utterly no noise, she pulled back the little viewer screen to see Bloo rocking back and forth, tears streaming unabated. He pounded the floor and wailed his creator's name repeatedly. She hesitated, ready to turn away, when their eyes met. Gulping, she leapt back, unable to suppress the squeak of terror escaping. Yes, she'd admit it- Bloo frightened her.

"Frankie?" he whispered, and, throat closing up, she nodded queasily. How did he recognize her? Did he know she came here nightly? Did he still hate her for telling him what never settled in? She hesitantly lingered by the door in the hopes he might not be hostile. Chances were, he would be, but there was always that slim possibility. She refused to give up on him.

"Don't…go. Please. Don't leave me."

She nodded again, staring at his small figure and wishing she trusted him enough to hug him. Framed against the corner, he looked especially woebegone, more pathetic than dangerous. Stringy blue hair dangled over his wet eyes and his fingers, quaking like a tree in a hurricane, struggled to tug it behind his ear. A tray of dinner lay full across from him and she scowled, since this was the fourth meal in two days he left unmarred. Mr. Herriman assured her he was fine, but she doubted it. She had no idea what was going on in Bloo's head, but this starvation troubled her greatly. She wondered if he intended to waste away.

Five minutes passed- she opened her mouth to speak, and then shut it quickly. The last day she'd conversed with him was two nights before his imprisonment, the night he'd tried to stab her over dinner and Mr. Herriman had leapt up to defend her. When they contained him, she'd not said a single word, merely glanced on mutely. Had that made his opinion of her worsen because she'd 'let them do it'?

"Did-did you see him?" he murmured, smiling softly. "Mac came back. I told you he would."

She suddenly found it difficult to swallow and studied the floor instead of him. The sad thing was, he sounded entirely sane for once. He truly believed he'd returned. She wanted to believe this was true, but she knew it couldn't be. Unable to think of anything that wouldn't result in his rage, she began to walk away. He called to her through the door, but, by that time, she no longer heard him.

* * *

Mr. Herriman glanced at the clock, scowled, and mentally berated himself for being too petrified to work under his duress. Because of that delay, he hadn't finished until rather late. Of course, he could have always started again in the morning, but he loathed leaving unfinished papers. Outside, the sky had calmed and, nodding as if affirming whatever had happened was a mirage, he hopped to the curtains, shut them, and hopped back to the door. No phantoms of the past would afflict his current state and the idea of a ghost was preposterous. There were no such things as spirits or other supernatural phenomena.

Passing Frankie's room, he poked a head inside to at least observe her sleeping. However, her bed was empty and, traveling up and down the corridor showed no sign of her. Foster's, nonetheless, was a large place and she could be anywhere. Hardly fazed, he hopped towards his room and, on the way, decided to take the roundabout path to see if he ran into her. He did, but in the last place he expected, speeding down the stairs leading to the north tower. He frowned deeply, opening his mouth to chastise her.

She halted, paling. Disapproval etched in every line in his face, she stared at the carpet rather than him. Already, there'd been several close calls, ones she'd inexpertly maneuvered out of. He'd explicitly forbidden her to visit Bloo and she understood his reasoning, truly she did, but his rules had never stopped her in the past and, on a matter this important, she overlooked them completely. The last time he'd caught her, it'd been in the same general direction, but not coming off the stairs. There was no way to conceal her actions now.

"Miss Frances," he began, and her heart sunk along with her head. A lecture followed, surely, and one she ill desired. Scanning her immediate vicinity, she lamentably surmised her only escapes lay in either running faster than he or darting back up the stairs. In addition, if she did evade him tonight, he'd simply add it to his reprimand. However, she knew better than to assume the late hour would ebb the flow of his words. She'd once received chastising at two a.m. that lasted an hour.

"I know I'm not supposed to be up there. I know you've caught me doing it twice already and I know that I should listen to you when you tell me the rules, since they were made to be obeyed, not ignored like I always do. I'm aware of how dangerous Bloo is and what he did the night we locked him up. I also know you're going to snap at me now for being rude, because I am. You're going to add that it's late and I shouldn't be out of bed in the first place because I have a house full of chores and friends to attend to in the morning. Did I miss anything?" she replied, exacerbated. Shaking her head, she descended the rest of the stairs and tried to go along her merry way, but he seized her wrist. The usual stern look was in his eyes, but mingled with it was deep concern and anxiety for her well-being. Atop her right wrist, his paw massaged it.

"This is not a joke, Frankie," he intoned, dropping his voice so any sojourning friends missed his using her nickname. She wanted to roll her eyes, but she was more irritated with him than amused by his attempts to disguise their relationship. Yanking her wrist out of his reach, she folded her arms across her chest and regarded him balefully. Jade eyes narrowed to slits.

"Neither's this. Are you just going to let him waste away up there? I know he's unbalanced, but how dare you give up on him! Is this the example we set for Foster's? When imaginary friends give us trouble, we shove them off the side and pretend they don't exist?" she pointed her finger accusingly at his chest and he shoved it to the side.

"When it means difference between your living and dying, yes, I should say so," he retorted, glaring back. "In case you've forgotten, he tried to kill you numerous times. And yet you persist in tempting the fates and antagonizing him!"

What he wished to add, but it never quite came out, was, _And I won't lose you. Not to him._

"He thinks he saw Mac tonight," she snapped, changing topic. "He's getting worse, not better! Obviously, putting him up there did absolutely nothing."

"And what would you suppose I ought to do? Let him live with the others and try to kill us all in our sleep? I said this once and I'll say it again, I will not share a house with a monster!"

Drawing back her palm, she slapped him. At first, the two stared blankly, uncomprehending. Frankie examined her hand like she'd never seen it before and Mr. Herriman gawked, paw flying to his sore cheek. Not even when she'd been infuriated with him had she ever raised a hand against him. Incredible hurt, beyond the mere physical bother, flashed in his eyes, but was replaced by anger.

In the coldest voice she'd ever heard out of his mouth, he hissed, "Go to sleep, Miss Frances."

"I…"

"_Bed_, Miss Frances," he snarled, glaring at her. "The longer you delay, the more I will deduct from your pay. Good _night_."

And, with that, hops echoing down the hall, he returned to his bedroom.

* * *

The tension in the house the following morning was insufferable. While arguments between Frankie and Mr. Herriman were hardly a rarity, the level of animosity between them now _was_. The two couldn't maintain eye contact and any conversation was stilted, spoken through gritted teeth and threatening undertones. Any indication of a relationship between boss and worker was lost completely, replaced by snappy remarks that only strengthened their disagreement. By the end of the morning, it looked like it might come to blows.

Madame Foster finally interceded, rapping them both smartly on the heads and steering them into his office. Frankie scoffed, at once gazing longingly towards the door. Mr. Herriman too resented her input, but as this was his creator, he kept his protests at a minimum. He focused his energy on glowering at Frankie and she responded equally. Another rap brought their attention back to her.

Unlike the others, like Wilt, Eduardo, and Coco, she actually knew the truth behind their relationship. And, unlike the others, she knew a staged argument when she heard one. The fury radiating off both was anything but staged and it distressed and unnerved her simultaneously. She cast the two a surreptitious look, then paced. An incredibly uneasy five minutes transpired, brimming with biting sarcasm waiting to be unleashed. Whenever one opened their mouth, a sharp look silenced any budding words.

"What," she said finally, "the heck is going on? Don't tell me it's a lover's quarrel, either, because I _know _you two. Spit it out."

Frankie huffed, staring out the window instead of answering. Mr. Herriman eyed the floor and then, jerked his head back up to scowl at Frankie.

"The floors are dirty, Miss Frances. You must have shirked on your duties while disobeying me," he snapped.

"Or maybe it's because I was too busy giving a damn to wash your stupid floors in the first place," she growled. "Unlike _some _creatures in here, I don't think it's right to let imaginary friends wither and die."

"No, you would much rather let humans and innocent friends get caught in the crossfire," he hissed. "And if one of them dies, so be it. At least you'll be doing your job as caretaker instead of sneaking around at night."

"And _you _could do _your _job and write up a nice little report about how stupid I was and how right _you _were. That'd make you happy, wouldn't it? Locking Bloo up looks good in ink, doesn't it? So good, you don't remember there's an imaginary friend living up there!"

Dangerously low, he snapped, "And you suppose I would rather prove myself right than keep you alive?"

Madame Foster, weary of their argument, cracked her cane over their heads so smartly, they both saw stars. She pivoted, scrutinizing both and, when it appeared they'd recovered, whacking them again. After about five minutes of this, she hopped onto the chair to gain leverage.

"Enough! Herriman, you're upset with Frankie because you think she's risking her life unnecessarily, but you forget that it's her job to care about all the friends in Foster's, regardless of who they are. She can't ignore Bloo like you can't ignore a stack of paperwork.

"And Frankie, you think Mr. Herriman started these rules senselessly, but what he probably hasn't mentioned is that he's worried sick about you. He's afraid if you wander up to see Bloo, you might not return in one piece. He loves you, Frankie, even if he hasn't said it yet. Now, will you two stop being such idiots and make up? Or do I have to hit you again?"

Neither said a word, but both contemplated their feet. Sighing, she jumped off, squeezed their paw and hand in hers, and hugged them both. Shutting the door quietly, she waited, listening intently. She only hoped her words hadn't fallen on deaf ears.

* * *


	5. Ne Pleure Pas

Author's Note: For the few of you still reading, I apologize for the lateness of this chapter. Computer problems for two weeks, my avoiding EiD for a while, and then more computer problems (most notably the computer overheating and taking part of the new chapter with it). As one might imagine, writing EiD is not fun. Nor is it particularly rewarding. Every chapter I wonder how much longer I can continue. It's very draining, honestly.

But as it's a series and I refuse to drop it, here's the new one. Foster's is not mine.

Chapter Five: Ne Pleure Pas (Don't You Cry)

Frankie rose, scoffing at her grandmother's words. Yes, she understood they carried merit, but while her anger might have waned considerably, she wasn't ready yet to accept them or an apology. Mr. Herriman watched her out of the corner of her eye, but said nothing. Good. He needn't say anything at all; he'd nothing to say she wanted to hear.

"I suppose I'll get a mop and clean your 'filthy' floors," she snarled, undoing her ponytail only to bind it tighter. He raised his head and their eyes met momentarily. However, the fury radiating from her gaze stilled his tongue and he rose, hopping to the utility closet and procuring a mop and empty bucket. Wordlessly, he shoved them at her and left.

* * *

Sighing heavily, Mr. Herriman's floppy rabbit ears hung dejectedly. He placed a paw on the doorframe and glanced back, through the glass panes, into his office. Frankie dumped the bucket underneath the sink, grabbed a hose, and poured water inside. She trembled furiously, swearing under her breath when the bucket overfilled, and snatched paper towels only to kick them aside. Yanking liquid soap off a nearby shelf, she ignored anything else that cascaded down and he winced- she seemed determined to leave his office in shambles. True, he hadn't apologized yet, but the way she acted, it wouldn't matter. She'd not listen.

Raising her head defiantly, she spotted him through the glass and marched over, sneakers squeaking. Green eyes sparkled dangerously and he unconsciously retreated into the wall when she ripped open the door.

"Is there any _particular _reason you have to hover by the door? What, you think I forgot how to mop the floor? Go bother someone else," she snapped and slammed the door in his face. He blinked, wounded. What was the point of continuously fighting? Just how long was she going to stay angry with him?

"Frankie, I'm sorry…" he whispered, pivoting.

* * *

Mac cocked his head and levitated by Bloo's high, barred window. Though he'd not possessed this ability during his life, he thought he'd rather be alive than remain utterly powerless. Months spent listening to echoes of his imaginary friend's actions, a few witnessed himself, and all the hurtful things he'd said and done. It pained him to know the reason behind his confinement and, moreover, come to terms with it like this. He ground his fists into his eyes, but the ghostly tear streaked nonetheless.

"I'm sorry, Bloo…I'm sorry I left you here. I'm sorry our last conversation was an argument. I'm sorry I didn't tell you the truth…"

The sad thing was Mac had only discovered the truth after his death. Sighing heavily, he drifted inside, stole a sliver of his creation's precious energy, and ran his fingers through his hair affectionately. Bloo stirred, but remained too entrenched in his mind to notice his presence. Unable to stand any more, he drifted away.

* * *

Goo scoffed at her parents' notions of a family outing, shrugged off her black jacket, and stared at Mac's picture on her bureau. He had his arm around her waist possessively and she grinned from ear to ear, pecking him on the cheek. Naturally, Bloo was not present in this shot, since if he saw even a hint of it, he'd have torn into her like no tomorrow. How ironic now that he would tear into everyone, regardless of whether they deserved it or not. Once upon a time, long, long ago in a galaxy, far, far away, they'd all been friends. Once upon a December…

Retrieving the past, she caressed the outline of his face, sighed, and laid it aside. She'd heard all those campy sayings that 'our friends are in our hearts' and 'as long as we remember them, they'll never die'. But when did it stop hurting? When did the pain fade away to a dull ache? Why was it every day felt the same, filled with empty events and hollow procedures? Why was it everywhere she looked, she saw his face? Why must he haunt her?

Swallowing hard, she bid the lump in her throat to vanish, but, like the imaginary friends she'd created years ago, it remained. There was a laugh; the girl with the overactive imagination could no longer create another one to save her life. The last time she'd tried, she'd summoned an image of Mac so powerful; she forced herself into believing it. Like Bloo, she'd spent a great deal of time denying his death, but when the truth finally hit her, her Mac facsimile disappeared, since her will to maintain him shattered. What was the point of living a lie? No matter what she did, what she constructed, nothing brought back the real thing.

She knew she had to move on, but it was difficult to say the least. Shutting her eyes, not bothering to disrobe, she flopped spread eagle on the bed and cried herself to sleep. That, along with moving on, seemed too far out of her grasp.

* * *

Terrence shared one trait with Goo- his night-table too contained a picture of Mac. Of course, unlike hers, it was less than endearing. Terrence had his arm around his brother's neck and the poor boy gasped for air. Meanwhile, lurking in the background and ready to kill, lurked Bloo. No matter where Mac wandered, Bloo followed. Yet since his funeral, he'd not spotted him since, not even during the occasional Foster's outings. However, since he'd never been terribly fond of the annoying blue blob, he couldn't say he gave a crap. Regardless of whether it was Mac's last living part, his hatred for him separated them entirely.

Swallowing hard, guilt threatening to swallow him whole, he whispered, "I'm sorry, Mac. I'm sorry for treating you like shit. I'm sorry for hating you…I'm sorry…"

A gentle tap on his windowpane caused him to slowly scrutinize his surroundings, but he saw nothing. Shivering and rubbing his upraised arm hairs, he scoffed. This was ridiculous. What did he expect to find? It was nothing; a dream brought on by his overactive conscience. Damn thing. Why hadn't it acted up more when Mac was alive and less after he died instead of the opposite?

"I forgive you."

Like a caress, the words entered his ears and Terrence shuddered, unwillingly associating them with his brother's voice. Phantoms of the past, he refused to enable them. If he clenched his eyes shut and kept his calm, whatever odd figments of his imagination constructed a new hellish piece would hold no sway over him. What was important was staying in control. If he could manage that, the Mac whatever it was would go away for good. And so would his guilty conscience.

"You're not here. I don't hear you. I'm not going crazy," he said, clapping his hands over his ears. Mac sighed, but he ignored him. Rain started to pour, but the figure outside, at first flinching, remembered it passed through him. What a depressing thought.

How long had it been since the rain splattered and soaked him? Part of him longed for that, the reassurance of life, and the other wished for freedom. A juxtaposition, a study in contrast, and yet, it suited him. He too was a contradiction; situated on this plane yet not sentient. It was amazing the plethora of dark conundrums one contemplated after their death.

"Great. Bloo won't let me go and Terrence pretends I don't exist," he muttered. "What is it about spirits? The first thing they think is- if I'm seeing one, I must either be crazy or heading there. Why can't people accept us and let us continue on?"

But did it matter if Terrence accepted him or not? He wished their relationship wasn't, well, an atrocity, but what could be accomplished now?

Terrence cautiously lowered one hand, spun, and lifted the curtain gingerly. Outside, glowing faintly, floated the ghost of his dead brother. The rain diminished his visibility, but he recognized him nonetheless. And that terrified him. Gripping his raven hair between his fingers, he yanked hard, yelped, and assured himself this was no dream. Then he was going nuts. It was the only befitting explanation.

Chills fraught the teenager and more so when the equivalent of an ice shower whipped through him. If he'd opened his mind to the possibility, he would have understood Mac's attempt at an embrace.

* * *

Mac's mother slept fitfully, tossing and turning. Hovering, he saw all the lines and bags he never noticed alive. She'd aged years in six months and his heart went out to her. While he'd never anticipated his death, he'd also never wanted it to hit everyone quite as hard as it had. How many jobs was she working now, he wondered. How did she react whenever she passed his room? Did she pressure Terrence in school since the resident 'genius' left? He remembered a quote he'd heard, about life continuing after someone died. Perhaps it had, but in most cases, it'd taken a turn for the worst.

Shaking his head, he departed. He'd seen enough for one night.

* * *

Bloo heard everything, especially conversations held underneath his tower. After Mac's death, his senses became more acute, but it hurt more than helped. He received their impressions of him spoken in whispers and it angered him. Yet tonight, examining the hands that had wielded weapons against Frankie and Herriman, nearly strangled a little boy resembling Mac, and abused anyone he came in contact with, he puzzled. Mac's arrival returned a bit of sanity he'd sorely lacked and he replayed Frankie and Herriman's discourse last night. He thought he couldn't care less, but it pained him.

_Was _he a monster? Was that why they locked him up? Honestly, before, he'd never given a thought to it. He'd simply blamed them for his imprisonment and vowed revenge. But…was that the way he ought to consider it? Confused, he stared at the wall and bit back a flood of tears.

"I'm so lost, Mac…help me…"

Succumbing to his emotions, Bloo, like Goo, wept himself to sleep.

* * *

Wilt, meanwhile, couldn't sleep. Occupying the bed Bloo had, he gazed up at Eduardo's bunk. The large, purple furry imaginary snored loudly and he was loathe to wake him. Yet as if he possessed telepathy, the creature jerked awake and leaned over to contemplate his friend. Wilt immediately apologized and Eduardo shook his head. No apologies tonight. He wouldn't permit it.

"Do you think someone's ever really gone? I mean…" he trailed off, uncertain how to phrase it properly.

"Is someone ever beyond redemption?"

Eduardo said nothing, at a loss.

* * *


	6. Belief

Author's Note:: A scene in italics indicates a dream sequence. We finally find out who Mac really loved..and I liked this chapter much better than last.

Foster's is not mine.

Chapter Six: Belief

_Bloo hugged himself defensively, eyes averted to the sight before him. Sound rushed past his ears, but he ignored it. A tug on his arm, but he shoved her back. Cars zoomed by, but he acted as if they weren't there. Pieces of rubbish were in his way, but he leapt over them. On the sidewalk, chest oddly unmoving, laid his creator. Tears welled up, but he refused to wipe them. Instead, he swept him into his arms and pressed his lips to his still warm forehead. Why couldn't he have prevented this? Why did he have to feel it second hand? If only he were there…he could have offered him his body to share. He wasn't sure how that worked, but he'd be willing to do anything to keep him with him._

_"Bloo?"_

_His creator's voice echoed and their surroundings vanished. The body in his arms disappeared completely, replaced by the same emptiness he experienced daily. Tears streamed unabated; he trembled, scrutinizing the now blackness but unearthing nothing. Nonetheless, his name repeated pleadingly. He stretched his arms out blindly, hoping to reach him, but the instant his fingers touched, he awoke._

* * *

"You can't blame yourself, Bloo," a voice whispered cajolingly and Bloo tentatively opened an azure eye. Stoic, his creator settled beside him and stole a bit of energy. Since Bloo freely gave it, he could take as much as he liked, but never too much. There was a limit.

"Is it true?" he replied, waking and rubbing the two hours of sleep from his eyes. Oddly, the first question springing to mind referred not at all to his dreams but what had plagued him ere he descended uneasily into the world of nightmarish doubts and dilemmas. Lending him more energy, he leaned into his cold chest and shuddered, surprised at the iciness of his fingers stroking his hair. Like in his dream, tears welled up and he inwardly cursed. An errant one slid and Mac thumbed it away.

"Am I? Am I a monster like Mr. Herriman said?" he murmured. "I didn't mean to hurt them, but they lied to me. They wouldn't let me see you. They wouldn't…couldn't…they were wrong…"

Mac sighed, opting not to travel that route. Watery eyes peered up at his translucent brown ones and Bloo sat up, caressing his semi solid cheek with his palm. He jerked and the imaginary friend instantly recoiled, afraid he'd inadvertently offended him. His presence was prized, both to sense of mind and heart, that if he'd done anything, anything at all to drive him away, he'd never forgive himself. Swallowing hard, he peered charily at him again.

"Oh, Bloo…" Mac sighed lamentably. "Oh, my precious Bloo…"

Bloo cocked his head, intrigued by his last statement. Already his mind hurriedly assigned meaning to it, dissembling it to fit his desires. He smiled, opening his arms to embrace him. Mac hovered above his head and shook it morosely. Why? Why couldn't he come down? Why wouldn't he tell him what he wanted to hear?

"It's too late for that."

"You love me, don't you?" he said, jumping up and brimming exuberantly. "You've always loved me, haven't you? I knew it! I love you too!"

"No…" Mac whispered, turning his back to him. "No…I can't…"

"Can't what?" he prompted him eagerly. "C'mon, say it! Tell me you love me! I knew Goo couldn't hold a candle to me!"

Mac's shoulders shook and in his moment of bravado, he failed to realize that despite no longer living, his creator was crying. He'd pressed his hand over his mouth to stifle the sound, but could not hide his quivering frame. Moments dragged on in which Bloo gloated and his creator mourned what could have been. Finally, still grinning like the Cheshire Cat, he leapt at him, but the energy Mac acquired had returned to its source and Bloo fell through. Bewildered, he stared up at him.

"That's why," he murmured, hanging his head. "Does it matter how I feel if I can't do anything about it?"

Dumbstruck, he watched him slump against the wall, only he nearly faded through that as well. The possibilities of what might have been struck Bloo too and he collapsed to his knees; all the while, he donated as much energy as he could stand. Crystalline tears streamed down his face but when he moved to his side, Mac pushed him away. Surprised but relentless, he wrapped his arms around him and kissed the top of his head. Egotistical, insane, mischievous, selfish, and conceited, yes, but hopelessly devoted to his creator. There the two remained until sunlight broke through the night's cover and Bloo, lethargic, passed out.

* * *

"He's been calling for you," Mr. Herriman snapped haughtily during lunch, astonishing Frankie and confusing everyone else. Wilt and Eduardo stared expectantly, but she showed no sign of processing this information. Her eyes narrowed at her lover and he, miserable but anticipating her reaction, contemplated his meal. A few seconds later, the chair pushed in, he felt a tug at his stiff collar, and she directed him into the kitchen. The rest pretended they either hadn't seen it or it was nothing out of the ordinary. Arguments between Frankie and Herriman were never recommended for the casual, unassuming imaginary friend or human.

"Is this a trick?" she demanded steely once they were alone. "I thought you wanted me to have nothing more to do with him."

Mr. Herriman scoffed, hopping to the sink and absent mindedly washing a few dirty dishes. He focused his eyes on the task at hand rather than her. Silence fell, but the moment he lifted his paw to begin anew, she tugged it and the plate. A quick save prevented the latter from breaking. Displeased with his sudden treatment as a rag doll, he retreated. Her eyes burned furiously.

"I don't," he replied haughtily. "This is merely to inform you _he _has called for you since he awoke this morning. Apparently, he wishes to speak with you."

Frankie untied her apron, bundled it up, and flung it at him. Shocked, he couldn't react before it slapped him in the face. Resounding footsteps caused him to throw it to the floor despite its possibility of soiling. Raising his head haughtily, he glared at her back and she pivoted; her glare just as fierce. Wilt entered with a pile of dishes, glanced at the two, yelped "sorry!", and fled.

"Don't you _dare _think of it, Miss Frances," he snapped. "You are endangering yourself and the house by communicating with that menace."

Thoughts racing a mile a minute, a nasty retort on the tip of her tongue, she bit her anger back and stomped off. He followed, calling after her. Yet his words fell on deaf ears.

* * *

Retrieving a straitjacket and filling a needle with a tranquilizer, she headed up the narrow corridor, beyond the staircase, and arrived at the three steps heading into his room. Pale and clammy, aware Mr. Herriman's words rang true at least somewhat, she unlocked the door and eased herself inside. Her hands trembled badly, nearly dropping the clutched items. While it was entirely possible Bloo could overpower her and ransack the needle, only she and Mr. Herriman knew the password to escape from within. They'd be trapped here together if Bloo jumped her. She only prayed that was the worst case scenario and not an actual probability.

"Hi, Bloo," she said cautiously and his head perked up. Gaunt and blanched, he rose unsteadily to his feet and regarded her as charily as she did him. A moment of uneasy tension arose and the straitjacket's binding dug into her palms. Mr. Herriman was going to kill her when he found out, so hopefully he wouldn't.

"You really don't trust me…" he replied, simultaneously awed and upset. She realized this was the first time they'd come within five feet of each other without a metal door impeding his progress in months. He gave her an apprising look, spun, and pressed his head against the padded walls. Sunlight streamed through the barred window.

Frankie suddenly recalled his charging at her with a knife, shuddered, and wondered if this was such a great idea. She knew he felt he needed to talk to her, but why had she gone ahead and opened herself up to another attack? Although seeing someone willing to go out on a limb for him and trust him briefly to let him come this close was doubtlessly therapeutic, there _was _their past history to consider.

"I know you don't believe me, but Mac was here last night," he began and Frankie struggled to keep her features neutral. He spun again to face her and locked eyes. All the moisture dissipated from her hands.

"Bloo," she started heavily, prepping the needle, "he's dead. That's not possible."

He examined the instrument distastefully, folding his arms across his chest. A lock of azure hair tumbled in front of his eyes and he casually pushed it back behind his ear. However, unlike all the other instances where she'd tried to convince him, he showed no signs of outward resistance or denial. His shoulders slumped and he fixated his gaze on the floor; he looked in dire need of a hug. She tentatively extended her hand to graze his shoulder, but recalled it at the last split second.

"I know he's dead."

The confession startled her, but it also revealed a breakthrough to sanity. This time, forcing herself, she laid the hand there and, regardless of her quivering arm, refused to move it. He craned his neck and gave her a wan smile, the best he could muster. The corners of her lips inclined, but she was too terrified to actually smile.

"I saw his ghost."

Scowling, she attempted to extract her hand, but he clamped his atop it tightly. No defiant, mad gleam entered his eyes, but they plead with her. After a few minutes of silent appeals, he relinquished his grasp and slid away to permit her personal space. Hugging his knees to his chest, he propped his chin up and she saw his arms had become rather skeletal. A tray of dinner, completely untouched, sat in another corner of the room. He wasn't eating again.

"I know you don't believe me. You think I've gone mental (again). But I'm telling you the truth- he's here."

"Right now?" she replied skeptically, examining the walls for trace signs of his imaginary accomplice. Irony there, that an imaginary friend had invented a companion. Only, in this case, he hadn't. If only he could make Frankie see it.

"No, not right now. He only comes out at night," he insisted and she shook her head.

"You'll see. I'll make him visit you and Mr. Herriman," he declared and again, she shook her head. He glared at her, but kept his hands to himself.

"Herriman doesn't adhere to anything supernatural, imaginary friends notwithstanding. He only trusts what's palpable, what can be touched. And I'm sorry, Bloo, but I'm going to have to side with him on this one. I don't see how Mac can return, as a ghost or otherwise."

"You'll see," Bloo repeated and it seemed as clear an indication as any to get the hell out of there. She rose, stretched, and pressed a five digit combo into the hidden pad inside the door. Peculiarly, he wasn't even studying her over her shoulder to gain information. The door swung open and she regarded him once more.

"I'm not insane, not now," he said quietly as she walked down the steps and shut the door. "I'm not."

* * *

"You disobeyed me _again_, Miss Frances," he snapped and she scowled, spotting him behind her. "There must be repercussions for your actions."

"Like _what_? You can't fire me. What are you going to do, put _me _in a straitjacket until you're sure I'll leave him alone?" she retorted and though a nasty remark flitted through his mind, it vanished as quickly as it appeared. He placed his hands on her shoulders, spun her around so their eyes met, and sighed. All the anger dissolved as well.

"Frankie, I'm worried about you, is that clear? I do not want you risking life and limb for that creature, especially when you stand a possibility of losing both around him. Do not brush off my concern."

"He's not…" she started, but stopped. Stuck between a rock and a hard place- she knew he was right and she knew he loved her enough to try to protect her, but he had to understand she had an obligation to him as a friend of Foster's. Smiling serenely, scrutinizing the area to ensure no one saw them, she pecked him on the cheek.

"I'll be more careful, okay? I promise. But you're not going to stop me from visiting him, either. I think there's still some sanity left- I don't think there's anyone beyond redemption."

Unwilling to argue against it, he shook his head. It was amazing how Frankie believed in Bloo and Bloo believed in Mac, yet none of them quite believed in each other.

* * *


	7. Somnambulism

Author's Note/Disclaimer: I know, a day early, but I figured if I was going to update Wishful Thinking on soulful, I might as well do this too. (shrugs) I liked this chapter, what little I remember. Lol.

Foster's is not mine and btw, the title means "sleep walking", but since the chapter itself deals a lot with the characters' perceptions of the world when they're barely awake, I thought it sort of fit.

Chapter Seven: Somnambulism 

Mac swallowed hard, gazing into the utter blackness and despair of Goo's room. His ghostly fingers grazed the glass and passed through; he shuddered, momentarily retreating. What happened to the vibrant, colorful girl he befriended? No mementos of her beatific outlook remained and it depressed him as much as seeing Bloo confined to that padded room and the others shirking away. He'd avoided visiting her, unconsciously listing it last not because he dreaded seeing her again but what the impact might be. While his presence influenced Bloo positively, it might or might not help Goo. And the only path she might choose if she went the opposite way was joining him here in limbo. He didn't want that, not for her.

A bell chimed softly in her room and he recoiled, remembering her explanation of the 'spirit bell'. When he was alive and skeptical, she'd insisted it announced ghosts. Its chimes grew more insistent the closer he floated and by the time he slid into her room, not even someone capable of sleeping through a hurricane would have missed his arrival. Goo tossed and turned and Mac gulped, immobile and astonished. He had to get out of here before she awoke, but like during the accident, his body (or lack thereof, now) froze. No snippets of life flashed in front of his eyes, but the effect was the same. He mentally cursed.

The truth was that though he'd been semi ready to see Bloo and Terrence, Goo was an entirely different story. Bloo and Terrence were fairly predictable and he'd known them the longest. He'd also been privy to Bloo's outbursts and watched over them at his funeral. Yet after his death he drifted apart from Goo since circumstances demanded he keep a very close eye on his imaginary friend. He wondered if she'd infer he'd neglected her and ignore him like Terrence. While he couldn't truthfully say he hadn't anticipated his reaction, receiving it from Goo would be ten times worse.

He wanted to howl like ghosts were expected to, but he didn't have the heart. If the situation reversed and Bloo were dead, he knew he'd use that every experience he got. Then again, if Bloo were dead, he'd be a poltergeist and haunt Foster's. Mac shuddered, disliking the idea of his imaginary friend's death as much as his own. Bloo and Mac were an integral part of each other and one without the other was bound to suffer. He just wished things could be different.

Goo tossed, opened her eyes, and gasped, recoiling into her array of pillows. Mac tensed, wishing that damn bell would stop its infernal pronouncement. She glanced at it too and a glimmer of a smile crossed her face. Gently she placed her palm on its top and the bell silenced. The only sound now was the beating of her heart and her soft breaths. Mac hovered uneasily, uncertain whether he was actually welcome or simply acknowledged. She stretched her fingertips towards him and, like with Bloo desiring physical comfort, a ball welled in his throat and constricted it painfully. He hated being dead. He really, truly did.

"No way…" she breathed, eyes widened and no trace of sleepiness left. "I must be dreaming."

Shaking his head gingerly, he sank through the foot of her bed. Unlike Bloo, who donated life energy thoughtlessly, Goo merely stared at him. The emotional toll of the day had robbed him of precious strength and if he wasn't careful, he'd fade through the bed and into the floor below. He had to communicate this to her without sounding terrifically greedy…or maybe he'd just make the visit short. His real business lay with Bloo, not her. It was just after all that time, he missed hearing her voice and speaking to her. His heart ached looking at her.

"Either that, or my imagination returned," she said, a trace of smile evident. He said nothing in response and glanced at the bell, which swung slightly beneath her palm. He had no doubt the instant she released it, it'd clamor again.

Unfortunately, his discourse with Bloo was a piece of cake compared to this one. There was so much he wanted to tell her and yet, none of the words formed properly. There were so many questions, so much guilt he carried, and unanswered dilemmas. She was always the talkative one. Whenever there was a lull in the conversation, it was because she was busy thinking of another insane thing to do and drag hum along for the ride.

"I thought you hadn't passed on, but I wasn't sure…and I couldn't ask Bloo…" she murmured and the latter part slapped him in the face. Of course she couldn't ask Bloo- he'd probably cut her up into tiny slices and serve them on a platter to Frankie and Mr. Herriman. He vowed to 'cure' him enough to permit him a normal life, but in the meanwhile, he and the rest of the house were safer apart than together.

A curious look entered her eyes and he cringed, recognizing it. That gleam meant unexpected and unpleasant questions shot rapid fire and he'd be lucky to remember half of what she asked, forget the rest. On one hand, it showed she hadn't lost herself wholly, like Bloo, but on the other…hyperactive Goo was a handful. The only time Mac ever approached that level of zaniness was on a sugar high and that paled to _her _on one. Foster's had nearly burned to the ground because she'd tried to cook, iron, knit, watch TV, play basketball, paint, and do the dishes all at the same time. Mr. Herriman swore a lifetime ban on the girl from that moment on.

"What's it like being dead? Are you gonna possess me? Do you have super powers? Can you walk through walls and stuff? Does it suck being dead? Do you miss being alive? Did you get to see heaven? Did you know the guy who killed you got off at the trial? Did you know Frankie and the badger are arguing? Did you I missed you? Did you? Did you?"

Mac almost wished she _had _ignored him, rather than be subject to this horrific litany. He'd lost track after 'super powers' and started wondering where she'd gotten that idea from when she launched on ahead, leaving him smoldering behind. A brightness she'd lost when he died burned fiercely and maybe, he realized, her depression wasn't as profound as Bloo's. Maybe she needed questions answered (a lot, to be certain), but then her mind would be at peace. Goo didn't strike him as someone would spend the rest of their life moping, whatever the reason.

"Well?" she prodded, eyes huge and luminous, practically glowing in the darkness. "Aren't'cha gonna say something?"

"Do you ever slow _down_?" he blurted and she laughed. It was like old times, except he hadn't been able to visit her in her bedroom or float above the floor.

"Red light," she said and sat perfectly still.

"Green light!" she cried ten seconds later and jumped up on the bed happily.

Stunned, he watched her pounce about for about five minutes, then the energy drained and her face fell.

"Oh. You're still a ghost. You'd think if this was my dream and all, you'd be hugging me," she murmured dully and he stood helplessly, uncertain whether he ought to seize energy now to comfort her and explain later or remain like a bump on a log. She was so exuberant- where had it all gone? And why so quickly?

Sighing, he decided he'd better answer her questions and then exit gracefully. The sun was close to rising (another hour or so) and that time was best spent elsewhere. If Bloo was ever going to live a 'normal life' and get over Mac's death, then he had to speak to the two creatures that held such power over his future. The only thing was, if what Bloo told him was true, they weren't going to accept him anyway.

"Being dead sucks, okay? I can't eat, walk, sleep, or touch people. I have to watch everyone I care about suffer and there's nothing I can do about it. I realized I fell in love with someone, but now it's too late to do anything about it and-"

Goo placed her hand on his shoulder, but it sank right through. At least, it did until she shut her eyes and he tingled; she'd lent him her energy without even saying how or why. Apparently, she'd accrued knowledge about this sort of thing the way she usually did. He now had enough form to touch and be touched, but he hoped the tax on her wasn't too much. Unlike with Bloo, there wasn't a bond tying them together and while she did give her energy freely, it wasn't unfiltered. The more she donated, in fact, the less he received.

"Bloo, you mean?" she said and smiled sadly. He stared at her disbelievingly.

"I know. I knew when I fell for you I didn't have a chance. If you hadn't, you know…do you think?"

"I don't know," he answered her honestly, hanging his head. "It's hard to say."

She nodded grimly, retrieving her energy and shifting away from him. Silence descended like a cloak upon the room and he theorized his presence had hurt more than helped. Longing to say something, anything to aid her, he opened his mouth, but she shook her head and he took his leave. There were some stones better left unturned.

* * *

Frankie tossed and turned, nerves unsettled. Despite her acceptance earlier, relations between her and Mr. Herriman were still tense. He'd tried to make her promise not to visit Bloo tonight, but she'd already broken her word. She insisted he shouldn't control her and he insisted if he hopped up there and found her corpse… 

Spending the night alone seemed like an ill omen, but what was she to do? She wasn't liable to wander to his room when someone might spot her. Not to mention she was curious about whether Mac visited Bloo and if what the imaginary friend said was true. She might end up drifting there and being discovered by him, leading to another argument. She wished he understood…she wished he'd see things her way.

"Frankie?" a voice murmured and she shot upright, peering around anxiously. The moonlight illuminated the strangest sight she'd ever seen. Mac, face pale and gaunt, not an inch above her covers and utterly miserable. However, not only could she see him, but she could see right through him to her door. It gave her the chills.

"I thought maybe you and Mr. Herriman would be together, but I guess you aren't."

Frankie pinched herself to check if she was dreaming, but not only did it hurt, she now had a red mark on her arm. Scowling, she shut her eyes and reopened them. He lingered, not surprised but not moving, either. Leaping out of bed, she turned on all the lamps and lights in the room. He winced, but despite the sudden illumination, nothing happened. He was a little harder to recognize now because of all the electricity, but he hadn't faded. She sunk to her knees in the carpet.

"Either I've gone crazy or Bloo's right," she whispered, shaking her head. "You _are _a ghost."

Mac nodded mutely, throat constricted again. Hops echoed outside her door and he tensed, but decided if she had company, he might as well stay anyway. She glanced at him urgently and he read the message in her eyes- maybe with Herriman here, you'll vanish. Logic always beats the supernatural. If you think it's not there, it's really not.

"Miss Frances?" Mr. Herriman inquired, rapping his knuckles on the frame. Frankie began to reply, but Mac cut her off.

"Hey, Mr. H," he said, smiling humorlessly.. The large imaginary rabbit opened the door, stared Mac in the face, and promptly fainted dead away on Frankie's floor.

* * *

"Not…real…" Mr. Herriman gasped once Frankie roused him. "A trick of the light. A waking dream. A very vivid dream. A guilty conscience. Soon I shall see Master Blooregard in here somehow and…" 

Frankie massaged his neck fur and his paws clutched her hands. In the wake of this, he'd forgotten they were still not entirely back on their old footing. He lifted a hand to his lips, kissed it, and she renewed her grip on him. Beneath her right hand, his heart beat furiously and hers quickened. She gave Mac a dirty look as if to say, "This is all your fault." Mac said nothing.

Exasperated, she turned to him and snapped, "Why won't you go away? You're distressing Herriman, you're-"

"You have to give Bloo another chance," he interrupted, firm and insistent. The first pink rays of dawn poked over the horizon and his urgency doubled. If they kept fighting him, his message might never be heard.

"I know what he's done, but I'm trying to help. You have to be willing to let him back into Foster's mainstream-"

"Preposterous!" Mr. Herriman cried, squeezing Frankie's hand. "I will not let that menace roam our halls."

Frankie glared heatedly, but Mac looked murderous. From his position near the window, he zoomed right up against his face and glowered. Mr. Herriman trembled fearfully, but Mac's gaze never wavered.

"I wonder whose fault it is he's locked up there in the first place?" he snapped tartly and the sun peaked over the horizon. Before Mr. Herriman could reply, he was gone.

* * *

_What if I can't fix this? What if Bloo's doomed to spend the remainder of his life wasting away and I'm an unwilling bystander? How can I make them see things as they truly are? _Mac thought, swallowing hard as the sun rose and his figure diminished to a will-o-wisp. _Am I here because he can't let go of me...or because I won't let go of **him**?_

_

* * *

_


	8. Belligerent

Author's Note: A long wait until an update and the chapter itself is short. Sorry, guys. It's just that I can see two of my major series drawing to an end. My obsession with Foster's is over until new episodes surface.

By the way, Otherkin _are _real. I'd say more on the subject, but I don't want to scare away the few of you still reading.

Chapter Eight: Belligerent

Mac appeared habitually, but never stayed long. Whenever Bloo spotted him outside his window at night, his creator floated deep in thought, often unresponsive to his calls. Frustrated and believing him to purposefully ignore him, he tried every means to attract his attention, but nothing worked. Those swayed to ascertain ghosts living in the north tower hastened away, deeming it haunted again. Frankie attempted to coax Bloo into discussing his renewed mania, but fruitlessly. Both creator and creation were swept into a frenzy of self blame and blocked communications.

Unfortunately, Bloo's regression asserted Mr. Herriman's conviction Bloo belonged in isolation and should under no circumstances be considered for 'parole'. He dismissed Mac's visit as a waking nightmare and continued about his business as usual. However, since Frankie's determination to 'free' Bloo also continued, they began arguing again, sometimes gruesome disagreements that sent friends scurrying to safety. Occasionally, one spotted them reconciling, lip locked, but that seldom lasted long. Bloo was unraveling the fabric of Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends and sooner or later, things would have to come to a head.

Bloo's actions sustained Mr. Herriman's claim; after all, what sane creature lunges madly at the door and then proceeds to attack the hand that feeds him? Nonetheless, Frankie countered that he never actually hurt them, merely shook them up, which was true. Before, Bloo had acted out to deny the truth but now, he did it to gain Mac's attention. Yet whatever Mac thought about the situation, he kept to himself. And it was this state of affairs that led to another nasty argument between Frankie and Herriman on an overcast Friday night, but with a nastier suggestion.

"If you insist on releasing him, Miss Frances," Mr. Herriman snapped, resorting to her formal name, a double insult.

"Then perhaps we should send him to Faust's."

Frankie staggered and the crowd gathering silenced, all eyes on her. Faust's Home for Delinquent Friends was where the homicidal, suicidal, psychopathic, and sociopath friends went. Subjecting Bloo to that torturous environment could easily spell his death or further derangement. No creature in their right mind visited Faust's unless absolutely necessary; to put it bluntly, the mass chaos of friends penned there made it a hell hole. It wasn't uncommon to have nightmares about it.

Yet to send Bloo there meant he was hopeless and beyond any chance of recovery. After all, of all the friends they assigned to Faust's, only a handful had ever returned. Some had met grisly deaths and others weren't fit for companionship, particularly by children. Bloo might threaten friends and herself, but he wasn't completely psychotic. If Herriman intended to rile her up, he'd managed it quite successfully.

"Why don't we just shoot him in the head, then? You don't care what happens to him at all. You never did. And you're trying to force your hatred of him onto me- well, it's not going to work. Forget it, Peter Cottontail," she snapped, folding her arms across her chest.

"If I care so little about him, why didn't I do as you suggested and 'shoot him in the head'? You forget your place, Miss Frances. I am President of Foster's and if I dictate he be removed from the premise-"

"Over my dead body," she hissed. "I won't let you 'remove him from the premise'. What are you going to do about it, rabbit?"

She might have found his use of "Miss Frances" rather than "Frankie" as insulting, but she saw her cracks were both humiliating and damaging. The pain flickered in his eyes, but before she could take any of it back, he straightened himself stiffly and glared at her. Worse than losing a debate was losing face, especially in front of the house. A solitary figure spurted down the stairs, tripped, and then smacked into the carpet. They went unnoticed.

"You have no jurisdiction over my decisions," he retorted, bristling. His fur stood on end.

"Or ours, for that matter," she growled and it was his turn to stumble back, blanching. Bringing up their relationship in front of the house was dangerous enough, but the way she'd uttered those five simple words drained him. The metaphorical pendulum swung precariously over his head and, temporarily incapacitated, he watched it, dread mounting.

"Like saying it's over."

Baffled, the group glanced at Frankie and Mr. Herriman, but discerned nothing to determine why he'd retreated into the wall. Madame Foster fixed her granddaughter a keen look and she winced. A wordless conversation transpired between Madame Foster and her imaginary friend and the two traversed the few feet into his office. Frankie followed suit, wishing she had more control over her mouth. Or, at least, the ability to delete harmful phrases like pushing the backspace button on a keyboard.

"I'm sorry…" Frankie murmured, leaning on the shut door. She contemplated the tiles rather than her lover, but her grandmother's cane whack caused her to regard him; her ankle ached.

"I love you, Mr. H…I just…I wish you'd be reasonable."

Mr. Herriman nodded austerely, not meeting her eyes either. Though they both respected each other's willpower and tenacity, it had led to less than desirable encounters. He hopped to her side, but refrained from embracing her. Madame Foster said nothing, only acting as a catalyst. Once ensuring no one listened at the door, she exited, leaving the two to untangle their mess alone. She'd learned better than to constantly interfere.

"Frankie…I am sorry too, but you must realize Bloo cannot live here forever if he poses such a threat," he whispered and , to his surprise, she reluctantly nodded. Intertwining her hand in his paw, she leaned her head on his shoulder.

"I know. Give me some more time to get through to him..._please_. If he can't hack it, then-"

"Then, we have no choice."

* * *

"Mac!" Bloo screamed, hurtling himself at the metal bars surrounding his only window. Already he had lacerations, self inflicted, from the utensils they brought him (they'd learned the hard way to stop depositing metal ones). What none realized was this was all a ploy. It had entered a new phase- desperation. Bloo was petrified Mac would never return to speak with him again.

"Get back here! Stop spending with your girlfriend and get back here!" he snapped and a figure, vague at first, chuckled humorlessly. Bloo pivoted, fists poised to strike. Mac slowly emerged, translucent brown eyes sorrowful. He'd done his best to avoid the conundrum he found himself in, but it seemed the more selfish he became, the worse Bloo grew. He held the key to his sanity or lack thereof.

Stealing his energy, he hugged him tightly and he pushed him away. How dare he think he can waltz in here and everything would be peachy keen again. Didn't he know what he'd put himself and others through to see him? Did he care? Why was he letting all this occur?

"I found a way," Mac murmured morosely, paying him no mind. "To 'live' forever."

"You're dead," Bloo spat, fury getting the better of him. "What the hell are you talking about? What, you're too good to spend time with your imaginary friend 'cuz you're a ghost? Well, _excuse me_, Mister High and Mighty, but while you were out having the time of your afterlife-"

Coldly, Mac replied, "I was out finding a way to stay with you until you die. But if you don't want to hear it, I guess I _can _have 'the time of my afterlife' and watch everyone I love wallow in misery because of my death."

Bloo scoffed, turning his head. Mac knelt by his side and ran his ghastly fingers over the contusions. Despite the equivalent of ice water trickling down his arm, he remained stationary and let him explore the damage he'd done to himself. He took savage pride in it; a badge to show how badly he was without him. After a few moments, Mac slid away and examined the moon through his window.

"You have to promise me you're not going to abuse it and fall into a coma to keep seeing me," he said, angry Bloo had resorted self mutilation. He wouldn't put it past him to pull another stunt like that.

"I found a practicing 'witch' who said as long as you don't contrive to spend the rest of your life sleeping, in your dreams, I'll be real. I'm on the astral plane now and so are dreams, so it isn't that much of a stretch. I can even share my body with you while you're awake, like a spirit possessing someone. I know it's not much, but it's the best I can do under the circumstances…" he trailed off, uncertain.

"Can't you stay as you are?" Bloo protested and Mac shook his head.

"Eventually, I'll lose too much substance and fade away, a ghost of a ghost. I'm only fully formed after I've seen and borrowed energy from you. You're all that's keeping me afloat."

"I thought you wanted to pass on," Bloo replied, all traces of anger vanishing. _And leave me._

Shaking his head, Mac said, "I want _you_. If I can't have you…at least let me be with you in spirit."

"Will it hurt?" Bloo whispered, more to himself than his creator. Mac shook his head and, stealing more energy than had been necessary before, wrapped his arms around him. Mac was right- the longer he stayed, the more energy necessitated and the less power he had. It was the general principal for spirits to fade unless attached to a host or place. Mac had neither, technically.

"Not that I know of…it's like what some people call having an 'Otherkin'. They're talking about having fairies, dragons, unicorns, angels, and elves bonded to them, but it's the same basic idea. We're all spirits that haven't passed on completely yet."

"I guess we could give it a shot…" Bloo trailed off, indecisive.

"First you have to get out of here. I can't bring you to see her unless you're present with me. And then we'll see."

* * *


	9. Make Damn Sure

Author's Note: (insert standard excuse for not updating earlier- finals, end of the semester, blah, blah, blah). I think there's only chapter left, maybe two if I stretch it. I apologize if the writing's horrible- I had to switch back to my 'old' style after writing looser for the past week. I ran out of steam towards the end, though. Ick.

Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends belongs to Craig McCracken. All hail him.

Chapter Nine: Make Damn Sure

Running through scenarios, Mac discovered Bloo's status in Foster's had worsened in his absence and unless they pulled a miracle, the only way his creation would leave captivity was through a straitjacket. Initially Bloo mutilated himself and blindly attacked others for attention, but now, when his relationship with Mac dangled precariously, he honestly regretted his actions. The two stayed up late into the night and wracked their brains for a solution; the sun rose and the only accomplished feat was Mac, fading into the wall and Bloo noticing how his creator lost substance. It renewed his determination, but also the pervading sense of hopelessness. Time was running short for both of them.

* * *

Frankie eased her way past a gaggling group of ghastly gorgons to maneuver up a meandering staircase leading to the north tower. She carried protective gear in case Bloo lunged suddenly, though she hoped it proved unnecessary. In her chest, her heart hammered and her palms sweated. A bead trickled down her forehead and she wiped it absently, jade eyes focused on the maze in front of her. Regardless of the time it saved to traverse this particular route than the normal, she met friends who, quite frankly, unnerved her and obstructed her path.

It'd been a week since she dared to visit Bloo. The last imaginary friend feeding him had flat out refused to serve any longer and bolted, screaming, down the main stairwell. Frankie had no idea what transpired between the two, but it'd emotionally crippled their aide. Ultimately, she vowed to inspect the situation herself and report back. If Bloo was anywhere near as bad as reputed, that was one strike against him. Two more and to Faust's he went.

Outside, the sun set and she heaved a relived sigh. Their helper had quit today and caused a ruckus right where a family planned to adopt. The ensuing chaos had driven away business for the next two hours; sunset's onslaught meant whether or not Bloo had gone off the deep end, it wouldn't result in lost revenue. Feeding, housing, and providing amenities to over a thousand friends came at a price, after all. Without parents paying adoption fees and a certain quota satisfied daily, Foster's depended entirely on minimal government support, not nearly sufficient. The last time there'd be a 'drought' in adoption, Mr. Herriman had shut off heat from the third floor up. According to him, there simply had not been enough funds to support further heating.

Faust's, however, existed entirely on governmental grants. Very few friends progressed to the point where they could be trusted with children and psychologists and psychiatrists commencing their careers received good pay too. If Bloo wound up there, at least he'd be well cared for. The only thing he had to fear were the imaginary friends ganging up on him and killing him.

Gulping, she ascended another flight and halted, familiar hopping ringing in her ears. She steeled herself to argue, but he shook his head. Once the remaining friends disappeared, he seized her hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed it. She jumped off the step and landed beside him. Consorting like this in 'public' tempted fate, but once in a while, it was nice to flaunt the 'rules'. Besides, the additional adrenaline rush sent her heart beating in triple time.

"No lecture? You're losing your touch," she teased, eyes twinkling merrily. "What will the other friends say when they find out you missed a prime opportunity to 'apprehend a miscreant'?"

"I expect they'll forgive me since it was in the company of a beautiful woman," he replied, embracing her briefly. In his arms, his heartbeat in time with hers and she shut her eyes.

"Damn your old fashioned charm, Funny Bunny," she said, grinning. "Not everyone can pull that line off."

"Yes, but not everyone looks as radiant as you in the hues of a setting sun," he said, releasing her and squeezing her hand in his paw lightly. They quickly moved aside upon the sound of approaching footsteps. A pithy romantic interlude, lamentably, but there would be others. There always were.

Wilt's sneakers squeezed as he descended the flight of stairs Frankie had begun; she doubted he'd paid Bloo a call. More than likely, he'd met one of his many acquaintances around the house. Unless a friend avoided him because of his appearance, they usually took him to rather quickly. His genial nature and helpful disposition had earned him a few admirers, too. Still, he wasn't the sort of friend she wanted to know about her relationship with Mr. Herriman; no one was.

"Hey, Frankie. Hey, Mr. H," he greeted, waving his hand. "You know, Bloo's been acting really weird all day. It's like he's trying to hold a séance by himself."

"A séance?" Mr. Herriman repeated.

"You saw him?" Frankie said simultaneously.

"Well, yeah," Wilt confessed, shrugging nervously. "I felt kind of guilty for not seeing him, since he's my friend and all. Well, he was before he tried to stab me with a fork. And, you know, all those other things he did before Mac died…

"I'm sorry; maybe I shouldn't have mentioned that."

"Why would Master Blooregard want to perform a séance? It's a completely pointless act as the dead do not subsist as spirits-" Mr. Herriman protested and Frankie prodded him in the chest. Another argument brewed and Wilt, quickly adding "goodbye", fled the scene.

"You _saw _Mac's ghost," she countered, folding her arms across her chest. "How can you say that?"

"Because, Miss Frances, there are no such things as ghosts. If there were, then shows like 'Crossing Over' would have a great deal more credibility," he stated stoutly. "As we are all aware, hoping to hear deceased family members speak is fancy and nothing else."

She sighed, opting not to explain to him the difference between crooks conning innocent people and the reality of the matter. Wordlessly, she trudged up the stairs to investigate Wilt's findings. Herriman obstinately pursued her and she tuned out his belated lecture on why ghosts existed only in horrific science fiction films. Of course, if he knew she _could _tune him out, he'd probably find a way to force her into listening. This was why she kept her mouth shut.

* * *

"Bloo, you don't have to _beckon _me," Mac snapped, frustrated and exhausted from repeatedly explaining himself.

"Séances summon the dead. I'm already here. How many times do I have to tell you this? There's no shorthand way to bond my spirit to yours!"

Bloo opened an eye and shut it again. Ignoring him, he chanted nonsensically until Mac yearned to yank his hair out of his head. Forced to growl at him periodically, he drifted about the room and sought an item to distract him. Wedged between the padded cracks laid a paddleball and he nudged it, but his fingers slid through. Accursed transparency.

"Double, double, double, toil and trouble. Cauldron burn and, uh…line?" Bloo said, opening his eyes to regard Mac.

"You are not a witch in Macbeth," Mac retorted. "You aren't even a witch. You're just trying to trick the system again, which I told you wasn't going to work. Why don't you ever listen to me?"

"But, _Mac_," Bloo whined. "I don't wanna be good. It's too much work."

"Do you want to lose me forever?" Mac countered.

Bloo turned his head, but Mac spotted tears glistening in his azure eyes. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he rose to his feet and pounded a fist against the wall. Mac stood beside him and massaged a shoulder, but, once more, his hand fell through. Bloo lent him energy, granting him solidity, and he lifted his hand to administer affection when Bloo kissed him soundly on the lips. Mac gasped, expecting Bloo to drop to the floor and miss him entirely, but there was a definite connection.

The door opened then and the two boys pivoted, Mac accidentally releasing Bloo's energy and causing his creation to land face first on the floor. Mac laughed nervously while Bloo rolled over onto his back and waved cheerily.

"Um, hi, Frankie, Mr. H," Mac said, chagrined. "How are you?"

There was a second distinct 'thud' and Frankie, Bloo, and Mac shifted their gaze to spot Herriman fainting.

* * *

Contrary to popular opinion, swooning and fainting _hurt_. The back of his head ached and he had a nasty taste in his mouth. Waiting until he properly perceived the situation at hand, he nearly fainted again, but Frankie steadied him. Bloo and Mac watched them warily, but Mac kept his distance. This Mr. Herriman was exceedingly grateful for, because he was terrified out of his wits already. Mac could stay where he was, thank you very much.

"You're…you're…" Mr. Herriman gasped and Frankie tightened her grip on him.

"A ghost. Yeah, we know. Sheesh, get with the program. It's the ninth chapter already," Bloo grumbled.

"Bloo!" Mac chastised, scowling.

Frankie's eyes traced Bloo's scars on his wrists, arms, and neck. She frowned, unable to reach her protective gear with Herriman in her arms. Should she constitute that as a strike or not? He hadn't physically assaulted them…_yet_. What if Mac's appearance was a ruse to lure them into a vulnerable position? What was she thinking? That was impossible. Wasn't it?

Folding his arms across his chest, Mac carefully worded his demand. He'd given it a great deal of thought over the past few weeks and understood unless they agreed, he'd fade into oblivion and Bloo's sanity would follow suit. Indeed, their mentality and existence swung precariously on that contingent. He had desired to speak privately with Frankie, since she was more sensible than her lover, but if they were both here, he had no choice but to broach the subject now.

"In Bloo's best interests," Mac began and Herriman sniffed contemptuously. Frankie, Bloo, and Mac glared and he silenced.

"As I was saying," Mac snapped, "in Bloo's best interests, he has to be able to meet someone who can bond my spirit to his. It's a long story, so don't ask."

As Herriman and Frankie stared at each other blankly, he thought it best not to obfuscate the matter. Clearing his throat, he drifted in front of them and Herriman unconsciously recoiled, crouching into a defensive position like Mac was a poltergeist there to accrue his soul and feast. Frankie shrugged helplessly, offering no apology, but as the weight of where he ought to be pressed urgently upon him, he decided it wasn't necessary. Many situations in this world were simply schematics, for which he had no time.

"But in order to do that, Bloo has to be able to leave the house." Therein laid the crux and he anticipated resistance. It arrived post haste.

"Out of the question!" Herriman roared, regaining his composure. "Master Blooregard will only leave the house in a straitjacket! If he were permitted to wander wanton on the streets, he'd murder someone!"

"You're wrong!" Mac snapped, incomprehensibly furious. His ghastly form quivered outrageously and he zoomed in Herriman's face. Petrified, the rabbit twitched, clutching Frankie like a life preserver. Nonetheless, his face lingered close to his. This was the closest he could get to hurting him for saying that.

"I _will _make sure Bloo's 'properly behaved', but you have to be willing to let him try," he continued, eyes narrowed to slits.

"How are you going to do that?" Frankie inquired, unnerved that Mac floated so close, but nowhere near as terrified as the rabbit in her arms.

"Every time he misbehaves, I'll disappear for the night," he said and Bloo's eyes widened in disbelief.

"You…you can't do that!" Bloo cried, alarmed.

"So not seeing you is his punishment…" Frankie mused, absently stroking Herriman's cheek. "That sounds apt."

"Do we have a deal?" Mac inquired, ignoring Bloo's protests and threats.

"If you can get Bloo to the point where he's safe to keep around the house, then, yes, we have a deal."

And, thus, Bloo's recovery began.

* * *


	10. Shake It Out

**A/N**: Funny story. I now hate this fic. Okay, maybe it's not that funny. But when I was reading it over earlier, I realized how trite it is. Yet when I opened this file, the fic went, "Write me! You know you want to!" And so I did.

I haven't written a chapter for this fanfic in _six years_. Trufax. And now that I'm getting back into Foster's, I'm wondering if I still ship the same things I did. Then again, I haven't watched the really big Mac/Bloo episodes yet.

Chapter Ten: Shake It Out

It started slow, with Mac reminding Bloo constantly how to behave. It took two weeks for Frankie to trust Bloo not to attack the people who brought him food and another couple of weeks for her to be certain he didn't pose a threat to her. He was meeker than before, constantly looking over his shoulder to see whether Mac approved or disapproved. Mac the ghost was seldom visible unless Bloo lent him enough energy, which generally left Bloo drained and lethargic.

After about a month, Frankie dared to take Bloo out of the North Tower. Time ran short and Mac warned Bloo if he didn't figure a way out of the house in another two weeks, it might be too late. Bloo stepped up his efforts, going out of his way to act less like himself and more like someone whose company might be desired. He actually bothered to use manners and be polite, though, for the most part, he faded into the background like Mac. It was impossible to maintain Mac's presence without donating energy.

Bloo sat on the couch, three days before Mac's deadline, and stared at the TV. Wilt approached him cautiously.

"Hey, Bloo," he said. "Mind if I sit down?"

Bloo shrugged. "It's a free country."

He wore a blue-black t-shirt and black jeans; he drew his legs to his chest and hugged them. His hair, because he hadn't been able to cut it, was tangled and ran down his back. Frankie, complaining about sanitary conditions, had bought him shoes. He didn't really like them, but rather than raise a stink, he wore them. The threat of losing Mac forever managed to wipe a lot of his attitude away.

"Is Mac here?" Wilt asked. Bloo stared at him.

"He's always here," Bloo said dully. "You just can't see him 'cuz he doesn't have enough strength anymore."

"Oh…I'm sorry," Wilt said. He bowed his head to Bloo's right shoulder, where the air waved oddly. "Hi, Mac."

Quietly, barely audible over the TV, Mac answered, "Hi, Wilt."

"How have things been?" Wilt said and then winced. "Maybe I shouldn't ask that."

"Frustrating," Mac said and sighed. "Bloo, I need to rest for a while. I'll see you later."

"Rest?" Bloo shrieked, although he was surprised he had the energy to be indignant. "What do _you _have to rest for? You're dead."

The words turned around and hit him in the face. He hugged his knees closer and whimpered. Over his shoulder, Mac continued to waver, like a sentient wind. Bloo's chest ached and he did his best to ignore it.

"And unless you find a way to fix things, I'm going to stay that way," Mac reminded him. "I'm drawing off _your _energy."

"I know, I know," Bloo said and waved away his creator's concern. "This stuff is hard."

"You only have three days."

"Three days until what?" Wilt asked and Bloo started, having forgotten Wilt was in the room.

"Until Mac disappears for good," Bloo mumbled.

"That's terrible!" Wilt said.

"Don't rub it in," he grumbled.

"There's a medium in town that might be able to help. But in order to do it, I need to stop leeching off you."

Bloo folded his arms over his knees. He didn't like the sound of that. He also didn't like Wilt's intent gaze over Bloo's shoulder. Mac was becoming less than an imaginary friend, less than real. The reminder of the deadline pressed a hard lump in his throat and his eyes burned again.

"They're not going to let me leave the house," Bloo sneered.

"Talk to Mr. Herriman," Mac said and then paused. "Actually, no. Don't talk to him. He wouldn't believe you. Talk to Madame Foster."

"And tell her what? My creator's a ghost and I need to see a medium so I can have him permanently attached to me?" he scoffed.

Even without being able to see him well, he sensed his stern, disapproving glare. Bloo pushed himself off the couch and wished he were a blob again so he could shuffle off.

"Whatever," he muttered.

"See you later, Bloo. Mac," Wilt said, though he was less certain on the last. Bloo rubbed his arms and felt Mac's presence diminish. Anxiety ran through him and he bolted up the stairs. He didn't want to be alone again. He couldn't take being alone again. Every time Mac disappeared, Bloo was terrified it was the last time.

He was so anxious he ran past Madame Foster's room several times. The door was open and Madame Foster stared at him.

"It's good to see you wandering around, dearie," she said. "And it's good to see Mac too."

Bloo's stomach clenched and he looked over his shoulder. Mac was almost invisible. Steeling himself, he walked into the room and tried for his old nonchalance.

"I was thinking," he said, examining his cuticles, "how's about we make a break for it? Just you, me, and a medium in town."

Madame Foster stared at him for a long time. The nervousness grew.

"Fine," he huffed. "We can take the Foster's bus."

"Bloo," she said very quietly, "the last time you left Foster's was before Mac's death."

"I know that," he scoffed.

"And what's this about a medium?" she asked. The mischievous light was out of her eyes and she was as serious as he'd ever seen her. It didn't do much to help his situation. He hadn't thought she could be serious- he thought that was solely Mr. Herriman.

"Madame Foster," Mac said and leeched energy out of Bloo so fast he got dizzy, "there's a way to bind us together permanently, but it'd require a medium. So you have to lift the ban."

Bloo had to sit down. His vision was blurring and his legs were unsteady. Mac had stolen enough energy to make himself solid, except Bloo hadn't eaten enough today to supply the two of them. He placed his head in his hands (he remembered again he had hands and not stubs) and waited for the inevitable headache to start. Without looking, he knew Mac was a few steps away from transparent.

"Are you all right?" she asked, prodding him with her cane.

"That's the other problem. The longer I stay here, the more energy I have to take of his to stay. And in three days, I won't be able to take any more from him."

The cane pounded on the floor and Bloo twitched. His creator's presence was a cold comfort at his back.

"So what you're saying is if I don't let Bloo go, I'll lose both of you?"

Bloo was too weary to be shocked. He buried his head in his hands and groaned. God, he felt like shit. As much as he loved Mac and wanted him around, he fucking hated when this happened.

"Essentially."

Madame Foster paced and Bloo staggered from the chair to crawl onto her bed. From there, he balled himself. In his lethargic state, he heard conversation but it went over his head. That was fine. He didn't really care. If he wasn't going to get his way, he'd rather not hear. And if he was, it'd be Mac who did the negotiating, not him. Mac was always better at it than him.

"Bloo." Mac's voice. Bloo groaned and rubbed his eyes. He rolled over onto his back and Mac sat beside him on the bed.

"Madame Foster has a good idea. If we first transferred your consciousness to me and then transferred it into an imaginary friend Goo created, we wouldn't have to worry about sharing a body. But it's never done before."

"S'fine," Bloo muttered. His head was starting to pound and he hadn't done anything fun like stolen into the liquor cabinet.

Mac sighed. Clearly, this was not the reply he'd wanted.

"You want me around, don't you?"

"Let me deal with him," Madame Foster commanded and poured what tasted like liquid fire down his throat. Gasping, eyes watering, Bloo bolted upright and stared accusingly at her. She beamed back, the perfect picture of a doting grandmother.

"What the hell was _that_?" he rasped.

"Brandy," she said. "I've slipped some into Funny Bunny's drinks from time to time. Makes him a _lot _more interesting."

"How is that supposed to help?" Mac said.

"It'll make him feel a little more alive for a few minutes," she said and then slapped his cheeks. "Come back to us, Bloo!"

After another minute of coughing and sputtering, he realized she was right. He did feel better. The fire coursed through him and filled him with adrenaline. He eyed Mac and Madame Foster.

"When are we going?" he asked and she hooted.

"That's more like it!" she said to him and then, to his creator, she said, "You'd better make sure he behaves himself. It's bad enough if he attacks someone here in Foster's. If he attacks someone on the streets, he'll get locked up in Faust's and won't come out. Got it?"

"I've got it," Mac said, nodding, and she sighed.

"In the meanwhile, what do you say we have ourselves a party?" She had a wicked gleam in her eyes and she grabbed a couple more bottles. "If you think your headache is bad, you should see the hangover you'll have when we're done."

"When will you let Bloo go into town?" Mac asked.

"Tomorrow. I'll send Frankie with him," she said and then fixed Mac a penetrating gaze. In his case, it really was penetrating, as she could see through him to the next wall.

"Okay," Mac said. "I'll see you tomorrow, Bloo."

"Wait!" he cried, but it was too late. His creator faded in midair. The hollow feeling returned, at least until Madame Foster thrust the brandy into his arms.

"It'll make you feel better," she promised and then the light went out of her eyes. "For a little while, at least."

She pranced over to the door.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To start the party!" she announced and ran off with a whoop. Bloo, clutching the brandy and drinking it indiscriminately, followed in her wake. Mac would have argued against drinking when he was already dizzy, but Mac had gone. Besides, Bloo knew what was best for himself. He always did.

* * *

Frankie was, at the moment, engaged in a battle against a particularly difficult stain in the arcade room. It looked like a combination of something she was positive imaginary friends couldn't produce, cola, and a couple substances unknown to man and imaginary friend. She'd been at it for hours and all she'd gotten for her troubles was a pain in the back and increased frustration. Also, the longer she stared at it the worse she swore her eyes got.

"Miss Frances," Mr. Herriman said and she looked up. There were a couple friends loitering around the other video game systems, hence the formality.

"I'm working as hard as I can, rabbit," she grumbled.

"One might suggest using bleach instead of cleaner next time," he said. Grabbing the sponge, she squeezed it and imagined cramming it down his throat. As fond as she was of him…when he acted like this she still wanted to wring his neck.

"Don't you have some filing to do?" she huffed.

"I did have something to attend to this evening," he said and she cursed. She'd forgotten all about it thanks to her battle with the stain.

"Language, Miss Frances!" he reprimanded.

"I'll get this done or I'll put a rug over it," she muttered.

"That will simply not do," he said. "And in any case, there is currently a wild party forming in the Foster's lobby. I suggest you finish here and tend to it."

"Tend to it? What do you want me to do? Mop it up?" she said, blowing the sweaty locks out of her face. Or attempting to. They stayed stubbornly sweaty and stuck. Mr. Herriman glanced at their audience, who wasn't looking at them, and tenderly moved the hair aside behind her ears. Her heart skipped a beat.

"See to it," he said and then, louder, said, "Honestly, Miss Frances, if you spend all your time tending to one little stain, you'll never get the house done. And then you'll never get any of that free time you're always asking for."

As he hopped away, she blew him a raspberry and glared at the stain. Or was that part of the tiles? She'd been at it so long she didn't remember.

"_Party_!"

Frankie rose, stiff and her knees refusing to cooperate, and leaned on the pinball machine in front of her. Was that _Bloo_?

"Party at Foster's!" her grandmother called right behind him and they both hooted.

"Oh god," Frankie said. Maybe she'd better give up on that stain. If Bloo was loose in the house with her grandmother staging another big party, she'd be better off there rather than here. And Mr. H would want to run damage control…or maybe she could convince him not to.

Yeah, right. Well, if Madame Foster said rule breaking was okay, there wasn't much he could do about it, aside from complain. He already did enough of that.

She abandoned the stain. From down the hall, she could hear her grandmother and Bloo shrieking. She hoped it meant Bloo was feeling better. Hugging herself, she stared after the imaginary friend. She really hoped it meant he was on the mend. Everyone deserved a chance at happiness, even the house's most annoying friends.


End file.
